Paladin
by EverspringNative
Summary: With Christine gone, Erik moves to the countryside in Southern France where he finds himself intrigued by a young woman employed at his manor. Everything changes when her former suitor makes a violent attempt to claim her. One late chapter is rated M.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N This is a rewrite of a previously published story. It will include new scenes and hopefully fewer grammatical errors. Please read and review! If you read Shadows of the Past you will enjoy meeting Erik, Sophia and Citrine all over again. If you haven't yet met them please sit back and tell me what you think. I liked the characters far too much to let their story just sit, so here they are again restarting their journey. I will repost as I re-edit, which will be around once a week so that it doesn't immediately effect my other stories. :-)**

** Paladin**

_Late Winter, 1870_

Days after the opera fire.

"This is beyond repair," Madame Giry said, her voice a low, rumbling thunder of anger and resentment. "You do know that, do you not?"

Erik made no reply. He stood and watched her stand with her back to him, grateful that she had allowed him to see her again. He deserved her ridicule. In the seventy-two hours that had passed since the chandelier fell he had waited for reprimands.

Everything about Madame's posture screamed anger to him: the straightened back, the hands on hips. He considered himself fortunate that she had led him to her sister's apartment in the northern part of Paris and not straight to the authorities searching for him.

"After all I did for you, all the years I hid you. Is this how you show gratitude?" She sighed and turned to face him for the first time, a wild gleam in her eyes. "Well, Erik? What do you have to say for yourself?"

The look in her eyes told him that no matter what he said it would not be enough. He had outworn his welcome, had destroyed the only bond he had with another person. Already he had spent two days wearing the same clothes, sleeping for spurts beneath the opera house and stealing into the night when he head voices echoing through the empty stone corridors. Soon, he would not be able to return.

"I would beg for your forgiveness," he murmured at last. "And ask that you have faith in me still…if you ever had faith in me to begin with, Madame."

Her face softened enough to show that she pitied him. She walked toward him, then thought against it and walked away, folding her arms as she turned.

"I thought I could save you," she whispered.

Erik stared at his feet. Ever since he had seen Christine leave with Raoul he had been haunted by shame. He had wanted to love Christine. He had embraced the idea of being her angel, a living, breathing Angel of Music. Somehow it had all spiraled away, slipping through his fingers like sand, each grain of hope escaping him. He had fled the old opera house with nothing but a deep feeling of emptiness and rejection, the same feelings he had carried since birth. Nothing would ever release him from his loneliness.

Little thoughts tripped through his mind: the two-way mirror, the ruined chandelier, the terrible accident with Joseph Buquet. He remembered with acute awareness every detail of exactly how the light fell, how the water rippled when he watched Christine leave in the boat, and her hands around her beloved, handsome Vicomte.

He had cried until he made himself sick. How had the angel become the devil? How had his good intention slipped so far into vile, murderous acts? This was not what he wanted.

"Erik? God in Heaven, are you even listening to me?" she asked. She stomped toward him, hand raised as though to strike him. When he didn't flinch, she lowered her hand and touched the right side of his face, the terrible side of his face still hidden beneath the mask.

Erik knew he still needed her help and it had come as a surprise that she had offered, especially after all that had recently transpired.

"You are more than this," she said gently.

"Not any more," he replied. He still could not look her in the eye. Since the first time he heard Christine sing Erik had known Madame Giry greatly disapproved of his affection for the girl. She looked at him sharply on the rare occasion they encountered each other. Always she stared, her eyes accusing, flooded with pain, but she said nothing. She knew better than to upset him, knew his temper, knew how quickly he could turn from placid to a torrent storm. His actions and harsh words drove her away and kept her at a distance.

Erik sighed and shook his head. Madame was all he had left in the world. When he looked at her again he realized she was all he had ever had.

"Not after what I did, what I wanted to do."

She drew him nearer, which startled him. Closeness was foreign and frightening. The warmth and comfort allowed others had always been denied to him, and his first reaction was to push away from human contact. She seemed to sense his apprehension and sighed.

"What a terrible thing to have your life weighed by this," she whispered as she turned his face toward hers. She held her hand against his chest, feeling the hammer pounds of a nervous heartbeat. "If I could scrape away all those years, I would search for a glimmer of happiness and give it to you."

"Why?" was all he could ask. "Why would you do such a foolish thing?

"Because even you deserve to be happy," she said. "So much talent, so much knowledge and it's being wasted."

He shivered at her words but embraced her as she did him, the bond of an orphaned son finding motherly acceptance.

"I will never be able to thank you for all you did for me."

Madam Giry shook her head. "There is no reason to thank me, mon cher." She showed him a folded piece of paper. "But now you must do me one favor. Go to this address and never return here, is that understood?"

Pain flickered into his pale eyes. She was sending him away. Was she frightened of him? Did she hate him? He took a step back but she caught him by the arm, keeping him from bolting out the door and into the night-darkened streets of northern Paris.

"Listen to me a moment. I have made arrangements for you. Your funds have been transferred but I will continue to manage them on your behalf. You will live quite comfortably, I expect."

His eyes flickered up. He would never live comfortably. Not as long as he was alone.

"With the twenty thousand francs you garnered each month I have purchased property."

"Property?"

"Months ago. When," she hesitated, searching for the right words, he knew. "When I expected there may be misfortune."

"How did you purchase property?"

"You barely went through a third of your 'earnings' from the Populaire. You've been here what? Twenty years? That's quite a substantial income, which has matured beyond what you would imagine. Personally, I think you could have demanded five thousand."

"Twenty thousand they respected. Five they would have laughed at."

Madame grunted at the absurdity of his words. "You have done well for yourself in your deception. Well enough to live the rest of your life with everything you should need."

"Everything?" he muttered in misery.

The door to her flat opened and the cold of winter greeted him. "It is time for you to live as a man, not an apparition."


	2. Welcoming a Stranger

**Someone instant messaged me and asked how different this rewrite will be from the previous story. From chapter 3 on you should see bigger, more noticeable changes. This chapter, however, does have some small changes. Thanks to all of you who are rereading and welcome new names and new reviewers!**

Ch 2

Over the course of a carriage ride, the pale yellow winter day slowly faded into a bleak, gray dusk. Erik had slept wrapped in a cloak the majority of the way, with the hood shielding his face down to his chin. He was too melancholy to part the velvet curtain and look out at the landscape. Where he went wasn't a concern. He would never again see the catacombs beneath the Opera Populaire. In some strange way it furthered his dismal mood. For years it was all he had known, and now it was nothing more than a memory.

As the carriage lurched down the dirt road Erik wondered where Christine was in the world. Did she travel north? He expected so, perhaps to the places she had been happy. He wondered which way the coach traveled. North, he hoped, somewhere near Christine, somewhere that their paths may cross again.

"Christine," he whispered as his eyes closed. Again Erik saw the visions that had been seared into his mind. He could see every detail of her face, each tear track down her cheeks. He wanted to twist and turn and manipulate the image until he could make her stay with him in his lakeside lair.

If only there had been more time.

He immediately berated himself for such foolish thoughts. Just what would he do if he saw her? He had to let her go, had to let what he loved fade into fragmented moments of what he had most enjoyed. He could not consider pursuit. Not anymore. She had made her choice and he would honor that because he loved her, not in spite.

He still loved her. The only love of his unhappy life. Gone.

The coach slowed and for the first time Erik gazed out the window. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen so many trees spread out against the landscape, tall, jagged, naked trees like calligraphy against the darkening sky. He noted a fence stretching as far as the eye could see, and beyond that hills that looked like gray-green, shapeless blemishes in the distance.

Once the carriage came to a rolling stop, Erik wisely replaced his mask and released a shiver in the cold, confining space of the cab.

Indiscernible voices caught his attention as the coach rolled back a bit and jolted him, causing his arms to fly out to stop him from losing his seat. He waited a moment, drawing on his gloves and smoothing his hands over his trousers.

The driver opened the door and stepped aside, revealing several men and women standing in silence. Servants, he thought, by the looks of them. They were neatly dressed in dark colors but appeared anxious, all clutching candles in one hand and wraps in the other as they stood in the driveway to capture their first glimpse of their new employer. Though Erik had just peered from the carriage window, it was darker than he had expected. The horizon still blazed, the light struggling to stay above the hills in the west. He was relieved the light failed as he didn't wish to be seen by anyone.

"Welcome to Belmont Manor," the driver said. His mustache twitched as he spoke, as his eyes strained for a look at the stranger hidden in the depths of his hood.

Erik glanced up from the depths of his hood at the two-story stone building. There were empty flowerboxes in the windows and dead rose bushes on trellises around the side he could see. It was impossible to see both sides of the sprawling main house by its sheer size and by the darkness of night closing in fast, but what he could see was impressive. Beyond the main house Erik noticed several smaller homes, and farther still, a long stable with a yard where horses were making their way in for the night.

This looked like something out of a story book in his eyes, with even a curl of smoke from the chimneys as though a painting had come to life. As serene as it should have been to him he felt anxious. If Madame Giry had put him in someone's stead he would not remain in this place. He would not be governed.

"Whose home is this?" Erik questioned.

One of the servant girls giggled, drawing a glare from the gray-haired driver, who turned back to Erik and gave him a peculiar look. "Why, it is yours, sir."

She hadn't meant to laugh, but it was an utterly ridiculous question. Had he not see the sign at the front gates? It was clearly stated that this was Belmont Manor, and he, being a Belmont, should have known it was his home.

"Most peculiar," the girl muttered under her breath, earning a nudge in the side from her older brother.

Sophia Dupree had ducked behind her brother once Rene, the coach driver, had given her a warning look. She heard Philippe, her brother, tisk at her. Always the child, he would say with a roll of his eyes, as though being four years older made him all the wiser.

The servants slowly flooded back into the main stone building and the tile-roofed clustered homes beyond the two story estate. They had taken to grumbling once the new owner made no attempt to greet them or introduce himself.

After her outburst Sophia remained perfectly silent, watching as Rene ushered the new master into the sprawling manor, most likely to show him around the new abode, which should have been Philippe's duty. Somehow, Sophia didn't think Philippe would mind. He had not yet warmed to the idea of serving someone else when he had been raised to sit and enjoy his days with a whiskey in hand. Their parents' deaths and the squander of family funds had left them serving rather than being served. Each day that passed Sophia grew increasingly concerned. Philippe seemed quite agitated, bitter for a man of his years.

"To work, child," Rene grunted as he passed Sophia. He gave her a hard stare as the new owner drifted past in a cloud of black cloak.

Sophia made a mental note of the stranger's height, as he had been forced to duck into the doorway. He was the tallest man she could remember seeing, and there was something about his movements that seemed...so catlike, so graceful.

Monsieur Belmont turned once as he stood on the threshold. He glanced around, his hooded head pausing for a moment when Sophia was certain that he looked at her. Holding her breath, she offered a curtsy and waited for his approval. The black hood bobbed and the figure turned again, entering the estate without a word.

It was a good sign, Sophia thought. And she was intrigued.

Her fixation was broke by Philippe grabbing her by the arm. "You cannot stand out here gaping all night," he snapped. "You have linens to fold, tea to be made, dusting, cleaning, sewing."

"Where are his belongings?" Sophia asked as she watched Rene's son Gabe lead the carriage away to the stable. Not one trunk had been taken from the coach, which seemed unusual.

"How would I know?"

Sophia stuck out her bottom lip. "It was only a question."

"You ask too many questions."

Sophia shrugged and played with a ringlet of dark hair that had escaped from the bun pinned at the nape of her neck, attempting to ignore Philippe's words. She, like her brother, had black hair and dark green eyes like emeralds. If their family still owned Dupree Vineyard she would have had boys flocking around her. She was pretty, but, as Philippe would say she had a mouth of fire. That, among other things, usually sent suitors away.

"Auntie sent word to you, no?" Sophia asked innocently enough.

"There was a fire, Sophie," Philippe huffed.

"A fire?" Sophia asked, aghast. "My God, how terrible. Is that why all these things have been arriving?" she asked, referring to the daily delivery of goods that had arrived over the past two months.

It had started with a piano and had ended with boxes of new clothing and shipments of fountain pens, paper and other small goods. The trickle of items had turned into a flood over the last two days.

"They've been arriving because they have been ordered," he answered curtly.

Sophia followed her brother toward the estate doors where the new master had disappeared. "And his family, Philippe? What of his wife? His children? Does he live alone?"

"It is rude to pry," Philippe snapped.

Sophia gave up the struggle with her brother. There would be time tomorrow to gather gossip from the other servants and perhaps speak to the enigma that had come home to Belmont Manor.


	3. A Fancy Cage

Ch 3

Erik followed several steps behind as Rene Monteclaire labored up the narrow stairway of the Master's House. The old man had droned out directions to the parlor, the solarium, the greenhouses and gardens, servant's quarters, great room, dining room… There were a lot of useless rooms, Erik thought wryly.

"Normally this is not my duty, Monsieur," Rene said as he stopped at the top of the stairs and sighed. He didn't bother to turn and acknowledge the house owner as he trudged down the hall to the last door at the end. "Your room, Monsieur Belmont," Rene yawned. "Philippe will be up shortly."

The scent permeating from the room was overwhelming. It must have been closed off for some time, Erik thought, though the servants did their best to add cheer to the room by placing roses on the bureau to freshen the stale air.

"Who is Philippe?" asked Erik, the first words he had said since they entered the house.

"Philippe Dupree. Your butler, Monsieur Belmont."

Erik nodded and turned his back to the coachman. He wasn't certain how to react to his newly given surname. As it was, he was rather dissatisfied with his surroundings. Nothing was familiar, save the smell of roses downstairs in the parlor and now within this darkened room.

Rene lit a lamp and turned it up, then moved to light another but Erik told him it was enough. Rene shrugged and blew out the match, grumbling over how dark the room remained.

"I suspect the smell will improve soon, Monsieur," Rene said with his back still turned. "Once there is someone amongst the living occupying these quarters again I suspect it will be quite pleasant here."

Once Erik's eyes adjusted to the dim light he saw that the main bedroom was simply decorated, with several unlit lamps and a double bed against the wall. There was a bright white and yellow quilt on top of the bed and several pillows propped up that looked quite inviting.

The meager light played against the fabric walls, casting a soft glow onto the brown and sage floral wallpaper. Everything appeared plain and cold from the small desk in the corner to the cherry wood bedside tables. His gaze repeatedly returned to the double bed. If it was possible for his mood to descend any further it did when he considered the waste of having a double bed in his room.

Apparently Madame Giry had not seen the manor for herself as she assumed this would suit him. There was nothing familiar within the home, nothing that provided him comfort.

"Madame Giry sent a note, Monsieur Belmont. It is on the dresser."

Erik made no reply. He fingered the engagement ring in his overcoat pocket which Christine had returned to him. He checked his pocket repeatedly to make certain the ring was still with him, fearing he would lose the only thing he had left of his former angel. How distant that night now seemed, almost like a wisp of dream. It had only been a week yet it was as though she had knifed him open mere moments ago.

"May I take your cloak?" Rene questioned.

"No," Erik answered.

The man continued to linger a moment longer. "Forgive me. I am Rene Monteclaire. We are pleased to have you with us at last, Monsieur Belmont."

"Do not call me Belmont. I am Erik."

-o-

Erik refused dinner that night. He was too exhausted and irritated from travel to sit before strangers. He had seen the dining room and its long, empty table and knew it would never be occupied. He had no desire to make acquaintances. Wryly he thought he would simply exist at the manor until his days ran out and he could be buried.

"Beneath the earth once more," he muttered to himself. His stomach growled but his mood was so sullen that the thought of food repulsed him. Each second was like another stone added to this beautiful mansion in which he found himself imprisoned.

Still in his traveling clothes, he sat in a dark and unfamiliar room, on an unfamiliar bed surrounded by scents so foreign he was certain he would never find comfort at Belmont Manor. He had journeyed from one hell into another with no escape in sight.

Feeling the start of a headache, he walked to the window and peered out at the moonlit night. Dormant rose bushes clung to the stone exterior. In the summer he suspected the fragrance would be overwhelming, as there were many trellises of roses tangled with brown ivy. Beneath the window was a small garden with empty urns and small bushes which had been trimmed back at the end of autumn.

Through the fog of his breath on the window Erik watched Rene Monteclaire's stout form trudge toward the cluster of servant's homes located between the main house and the stables. His fingers grazed the smooth glass and he shivered at the cold beneath his fingertips. Thus far nothing had changed save for the location. He was still separated from the rest of the world, this time trapped in a cage above the ground.

Since the room was so stuffy from being closed off Erik decided to allow fresh air into his private quarters, hoping this would lift his spirits or settle him down for the night so that he could sleep.

Once the window was raised he bent and stuck his head out into the night, breathing in the crisp, clean scent of late winter. His lungs hurt but he didn't mind the sharp pain. Erik didn't know why but it felt good. It felt better than feeling nothing at all, and since the opera fire and Christine's departure he had become a shell.

It hurt to think of her. He could still see her face in his mind and it made him want to cry out. For hours he had tried to pinpoint exactly where he had made a mistake but it was impossible. At times he swore it was at birth, and at moments he wanted to believe it was at the very end, when he had sunken so low that he decided to steal that poor girl from the stage.

"Tea, Monsieur Belmont?" a woman asked.

Erik rammed the top of his head into the window at the unexpected voice. He stifled a curse as he slunk back into the room, the top of his skull throbbing and little black spots dancing before his eyes.

"Oh. Oh my, are you hurt?" the young woman asked. In her panic she nearly threw the tray on the dresser top as she rushed toward him, then backed away as he motioned her off. Her left hand bumped the tray and a splash of steaming water lapped onto her skin, which caused her to suck in a breath.

He turned, his head still hooded so that she saw nothing of his appearance. "I'll survive," he replied as he rubbed the top of his head.

"My goodness, you could have killed yourself."

"Hardly," he spit back. "Why are you sneaking about?"

The young woman looked taken aback by his comment. "I knocked, Monsieur Belmont," she explained. "You did not answer."

"Not exactly an invitation to enter," he said under his breath.

"I didn't know you were in, Monsieur." She reached for the lamp, still looking at him as she did.

"Leave it. It's fine as it is," he growled.

"It's so dark…"

"Do you think I am ignorant? I realize it is dark! Now leave it."

He watched as she shook out her scalded, throbbing hand. "I apologize," she said softly. "I just thought you would be out for the night, Monsieur."

"And where would I be?"

She pressed her lips together, standing a little straighter. This nameless servant had obviously not expected to be scolded for bringing him tea and making light conversation. With a shrug, she spoke. "Perhaps out for a walk to inspect the grounds. They are quite lovely, even at night. With a wrap it's quite enjoyable."

The rationale of her reply irritated him. "Was that all?"

"Yes, Monsieur." She stepped forward, her eyes narrowed curiously as she attempted to see his face.

"You may leave."

"But dinner—"

"I said you may leave. Can you not hear?"

The girl stared hard at him for a moment, her face flushed and lips tight as though no one had ever spoken to her in such a short manner before. She curtsied stiffly, arms akimbo.

"I apologize for the intrusion."

"Make certain it does not happen again, do you understand?"

"Yes, Monsieur," she said with another nervous curtsy.

He snorted, mumbling under his breath, tired and sore from travel and aggravated by this child intruding on what was to be his private space. He had no desire to see anyone, least of all a bumbling girl.

"Have a pleasant night alone here," she added, her tone somewhat condescending. "I will not trouble you again, Monsieur."

Erik exhaled and crossed his arms, watching as she arranged the cup and bowls of milk and sugar on the tray. Her movements were ridged, her face set in a determined scowl.

My God, he thought, pulling on the hood to be certain it still covered his face, she is genuinely upset. What a peculiar girl.

The longer she remained in the room the more uncomfortable Erik became following his outburst. If this was to be his new life he needed to put forth greater effort. He looked at her and felt a small tug of remorse at his heart.

"Mademoiselle? Your name, if you would be so kind?" Erik said, surprising himself by asking her a question in a pleasant tone.

"Sophia Patrice Dupree," she said haughtily despite her black dress and white apron.

He found her air of confidence amusing. She was a pretty girl, he noted, not that it much mattered. Perhaps her nose was a little too long and her eyes...there was something strange about her eyes, as though she wasn't looking where he thought. Exactly what was peculiar he hadn't quite discovered, but he was in no position to go about listing the faults of others.

"Thank you, Sophia Patrice Dupree," he replied. "I apologize for being short with you."

She nodded, still attempting to see beneath the hood. "You have had a long day of travel. I suppose it is only natural to desire solitude. I'm certain that after a long day on the road I would not want to be bothered either."

The last thing he wanted was to be alone but he nodded nonetheless, satisfied at last in the conversation.

The girl offered her hand with a smile as a truce but he hesitated, his hand recoiling from hers. Her eyes traveled up and he could have sworn they penetrated through the deep hood, locking on his eyes, and past his flesh into something much deeper. A soul, he thought, if he ever had a soul to begin with.

"I see," she said softly, watching his hand return to his side. "Good night, Monsieur."

Erik owed her no explanation but still he wanted to say something, anything to lessen the insult, the mockery of her denied gesture. He was still attempting to form the words in his mouth when the door slammed shut and the girl named Sophia stomped down the stairs.

With a weary sigh Erik sat on the end of the bed and rubbed his temples. Not even an hour had passed and already he had made an enemy.

"Perfect," he muttered under his breath. "Bloody perfect."

He was never going to grow accustomed to that girl.


	4. The Duprees

Paladin4

What a dreadful, irritating man, Sophia thought as she trudged back to the kitchen. What an eccentric fool in his black cape and hood. And a mask? She had seen it when he turned, when he hit his head on the window. He must have considered himself highly important to hide his identity.

She smirked in satisfaction at the thought of him hitting his head. She wanted to hit him on the head, the dolt!

"Serves him right!" she said as she kicked the bottom stair with her heel. Her hand still throbbed from her accident with the tea. She considered him quite rude not to ask if she was badly injured. Rude, eccentric---ooh, the list went on and on with this terrible man!

Sophia walked through the kitchen, and reached for her cloak on the hook. She misjudged the distance and jammed her fingers into the plaster wall, sending a sharp pain through her hand that only added to her agony. She stomped her foot and grit her teeth, unable to do anything more with two injured hands.

Tears threatened but she took a deep breath and slowly plucked her cloak from the hook. Throwing it over her shoulders, she scurried out the door and into the night. She glanced over her shoulder at the stone building she had just left and saw the new master was standing in the window again, the faint light from his room creating nothing more than deep shadows around his tall, broad-shouldered frame.

Curse him, Sophia said to herself. If he wants to live like an apparition, so be it. He would receive no sympathy from her.

What a peculiar girl, Erik thought. She had come into his room unannounced, disturbed him then attempted to act as though he had been in the wrong.

He rose when he heard the door slam shut and walked to the window, watching as she stomped across the yard to a small cottage. There her shadow melded with the oily black night. The only trace of her was the door slamming shut again.

Good riddance to her, the irritating brat, he thought.

She didn't deserve a second thought. A little too presumptuous for my liking, Erik thought as he tapped his fingers on the windowsill.

With a sigh he thought of her initial reaction when she walked into the room. Horror, he thought, she had been horrified. But the reaction wasn't to his face. She was concerned that he had hurt himself, even going so far as to think he could have killed himself.

Erik smirked to himself. She was an unusual girl indeed if she was concerned for his well-being.

Anger rose again. She was a servant, for God's sake! She consumed far too much of his time. He would put her out of his mind for good and rest for the night. Perhaps in the morning he would feel better adjusted and more capable of comprehending his surroundings and his new situation.

With a ragged sigh he turned and glanced around the room, remembering the note from Madame Ann Giry. He needed something familiar. The note would have to satisfy him for a moment. He smirked at the irony of her sending him a note for once.

_Erik,_

_By now I expect you are settled. Philippe will see to your needs and conduct payroll to your servants. I believe you will be quite pleased with what your wages have purchased. When the time is right, walk the grounds. The orchards will provide a steady profit for you over the years, and I believe the outdoors and fresh air will do you good. I will write again soon._

_Yours,_

_A.K. Giry._

_P.S_

_Sophia means well. She has the head of a bull._

The post script made him smirk. Once again he was thinking of that damned girl. He folded the note and left it on the dresser, his attention turned back to a soft knock on the door.

"Monsieur, a moment, if you will?" a male voice questioned from the hall.

Erik sighed. Why exactly was everyone pounding at the door? Didn't anyone understand that travel was daunting? He glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost ten. Sneering at the clock, he crossed to the door and peered into the hall. A tall man with dark hair and light eyes stood in the hall carrying a bundle of papers.

"Philippe Dupree?" Erik questioned.

"Very good, sir," Philippe answered. He stammered a moment when he saw Erik still dressed in his outer garments. "Is this house cold, Monsieur?"

"I considered taking a walk," Erik lied.

"Oh, well, I will not keep you long. I wanted to speak with you before Sophia brought tea. I just saw her walk outside…" He glanced around the room and cringed when he saw the tea tray. "Ah, I see you have already met her? I apologize."

Erik turned his back to Philippe and folded the note again, needing something to occupy his time.

"I received a note from Madame Giry yesterday."

Erik stiffened. He gave a curt nod but didn't turn to face his butler.

"She sent paper and ink as a welcome home gift for you, sir. She said in her note to me that you were a composer. I suppose that explains the piano in the great room."

The comment made Erik turn.

"Perhaps Monsieur Monteclaire showed it to you?"

"A piano?" Erik questioned. He hadn't seen a piano. How had he missed a piano?

Erik blinked several times in an attempt to clear his mind. His thoughts were still wrapped foolishly around Christine.

"Yes, sir. Until now, only my sister has tinkered with it, I'm afraid. Madame Giry had it sent in the spring. My sister has given it attention but she has never been taught. I'm sure you will be able to put it to good use."

"Your sister?"

"Sophia. Sophia is my sister."

"I thought she was your wife."

Philippe couldn't help but laugh. "That woman as my wife? God in heaven, no. I pity the man to wrestle with her heart and mouth. She is not the kind of woman that makes a man happy."

Erik made no reply. It seemed strange for a man to speak ill of his family, but he made no attempt to defend the irritating little whelp.

"I've taken up enough of your time," Philippe said. He cleared his throat and turned to leave. "Breakfast is at 9:30. Will you take breakfast in the dining room?"

"I prefer my bedchamber," Erik replied sharply. "I will send for you should I need anything."

Two hours passed and Erik assumed that Philippe Dupree thought he was lying when he said he wasn't cold. The fireplace in the parlor made the wall behind Erik's head warm to the touch, and the heated air made him drowsy and lethargic. The intoxicating scent of roses lulled him into a transient state of contentment.

Staring at nothing in particular, he sat awake in bed with an unfinished page of music on his lap. The ink pen in his right hand had created a blotch the size of a hen's egg in the center of the page, a black eye that watched him in the candlelight.

The curtains moved as the crisp winter breeze cut through the surrounding warmth. Erik had forgotten the feel of fresh air on his skin. He had forgotten the sound of rustling trees and the call of owls, the sight of clouds beneath a full moon. All those years he thought he was content beneath the opera house had really done nothing but affirm his misery.

He had been mortally suspended, neither really living nor dead. He had become a ghost in more than just his name.

And now he needed to start over, a full-grown man forced to start anew and rebuild a life—or discover a life as he had never actually lived.

But it would still be an endeavor done alone.

Erik bit his lip to keep from sobbing. He was more alone now than he had ever felt in his entire life. The house was unbearably still, the lamp turned down so that the room felt smaller and more confining than before.

Already he had met three of his servants but he couldn't relate to any of them. Two he had not particularly cared for while the third, the girl, had grated his nerves. She did not know her place in the house.

And, he thought, neither do I.

This was going to be impossible. He should not have escaped from the lakeside apartment. He should have stayed and waited for the mob to find him and beat him to death or hang him or whatever they had in store.

He was a monster, not a man. He didn't need a mirror to show him what he was beneath the scarred flesh. He felt it, especially since he had hurt the one woman he felt he had loved. And now he would never see her again.

Again he looked around in the darkness. This is how men and women live, he thought to himself. This is what the world enjoys and what I have never known. As much as he didn't want to admit it, the room was suitable. The bed was soft, the furniture of fine quality, his comforts maintained far better than he had ever experienced and ever deserved.

He shoved the papers aside and lay down fully clothed, too tired and too depressed to care if he wrinkled or tore his clothing. No one would see him. He would haunt this place just as he had haunted the opera house.

"Accept it," he murmured to himself. "This is all you will ever know."

Perhaps there was nothing to be done. Perhaps he was too old to better his life, he thought as he closed his eyes.

Erik had no idea when he had fallen asleep.

At first he thought that the muffled sound of a woman's tear-streaked voice was only in his dreams. For a moment he thought it was Christine weeping for him, telling him she was sorry for hurting him.

"I forgive you," he whispered.

He turned over in bed and woke enough to realize where he was at again. Disappointment shot through him as he realized how far he actually was from Christine. He doubted that she still thought of him.

Still groggy, he reached for the engagement ring in his pocket and panicked when it wasn't there. Frantically he sat up, hoping it was still on the bed or on the floor. He couldn't live without that ring. It was all he had left of her love.

"Leave me alone!" the woman shouted.

Erik froze from his place on the floor where he searched for the ring. He slowly rose to his feet, walking toward the open window at the sound of the voice.

Sophia stood in the garden below, wrapped in her shawl. Her brother stood before her, arms crossed as he paced back and forth.

"Foolish girl! You should not be out here. You'll freeze to death."

"I would rather freeze than discuss this with you."

"You are better off alone," Philippe barked. "You know it is true, Sophia. Why must you give yourself such heartache? Don't you hear what the others say about you? How they speak when you are not there? They know, Sophie, they know you have difficulty now that your eye has become troublesome. They see your struggle with even simple tasks. You are only making a fool of yourself."

"Don't tell me I am struggling! I know how to do my work!"

"You burned your hand tonight."

"It's fine."

"Is it? Perhaps this time, but what happens if you put your hand into the fire? Then what?"

"I will learn to be more careful," she said evenly.

"How long will you be able to work efficiently? Soon you will not be able to find your way around the house," Philippe replied.

"I count my steps, I know the way. I've practiced for months. I can do this!"

"Swallow your pride, girl."

"Philippe--"

"You will resign from work. I will talk to Karl and ask him if he would consider a proposal. Perhaps if you learn to hold your tongue he will take pity on you. It's the only decent chance you have in life."

"I don't want any of your charity, Philippe! Leave me alone."

"Not everyone will treat you as well as I have, you ingrate. Get your head out of the clouds, Sophia. You must take what you can get, and Karl is a good match."

The girl stormed off in her fury, rounding the corner. She misjudged her distance from the building and clipped the corner, which brought her to her knees. Erik heard her release a pathetic sob as she scrambled to her feet. He leaned further out the window, hands squeezing the sill as she stumbled and righted herself.

"What did I tell you?" her brother asked snidely, adding insult to her injuries. "You should know when you are defeated, Sophia."

She waved her arms at him and ran away, disappearing into the night. Erik watched long enough to see Philippe return home before he quietly shut the window and walked out his bedroom door, having no idea where he was going or what he intended to do.

He needed to do something about that damned girl.


	5. In Darkness

**A/N This is the first chapter with fairly noticeable changes to it. Feedback is appreciated. Thanks!**

Paladin5

Sophia sat against the stone facade with her knees drawn up to her chest. Her shoulder hurt, her knees were bruised, and her hand still throbbed. Tears added to her misery as she buried her face in her hands and shivered in the cold.

She hated Philippe for wanting her to resign from her duties and beg Karl Turro to marry her. Even if he hadn't said it she knew that her brother would make promises he couldn't keep to send her away. Since their parents had died, Philippe had been frustrated by her constant presence, and now that her condition was worsening he would campaign on her behalf.

It angered Sophia. She was no longer in love with Karl. Their childhood courtship had ended almost three years ago and she had no intention of seeing him again. Why couldn't Philippe understand that she didn't want to be married to a man she didn't love?

The shawl over her shoulders provided little comfort in the chill of the night, but her stubborn nature would not allow her to relent and return inside.

0000

The wind was so bitterly cold that Erik's eyes began to water the moment he stepped into the night. He drew up his hood again and wrapped his cloak tightly around his frame. He was still attempting to understand why he had left his room when he rounded the side of the manor and found himself in the barren garden.

It wasn't difficult to find Sophia, though the last thing he wanted to do was find her. She was foolish, arrogant, immature…and freezing by the looks of her, he thought.

Erik frowned when he saw her sitting up against the building. She had her head buried in her folded arms, sobs escaping her lips. He had expected to find her pacing back and forth with her hands on her hips, not weeping pathetically.

He froze, suddenly not wanting to be seen. In her hysteria the last thing she'd want to see was him lurking about in shadows.

Hell, he thought as he stepped forward.

She would fear him if she turned and saw his masked face lingering over her. She would shriek when she saw this deformed stranger approaching her in the middle of the night.

He took another step, hands clenched into fists.

Erik stood beside her, his shadow darkening her quivering form. The only thing he could think was that she was fortunate that it hadn't snowed in weeks as her clothes would have been soaked through.

Unsure of what to do, Erik held his breath and listened to her, waiting for a break in her emotion. He almost hoped she would continue to cry so he could walk quietly away and disappear into the night.

Slowly, he took a step back.

"I see you standing there. Don't think that you are invisible," she sniffled, glancing over her shoulder.

He nodded and pressed his lips together. What a foolish plan this had been. He didn't know what to say to her, what words might give her comfort. He had never been a welcomed figure into anyone's life.

"Do you want something?" she hissed as she glanced up at him. "Or have you come to mock me?"

"I was going for a walk," he answered. "And you happen to be sitting out here in the cold."

"Did Philippe send you?"

"No one sent me," he said at last, his voice low.

She rubbed her eyes with her fingers and nodded. "Just out taking a stroll?" she asked dryly. Anger flashed in her reddened eyes. "In the middle of the night?"

"Certainly better than sitting in the cold," he snapped. "Get up before you catch a fever."

Sophia stared at him, searching his shadow in the moonlight. He realized that with his back to the moon she couldn't see his face.

"I'd rather sit here," she said, biting off her words.

Erik crossed his arms over his chest. She was a difficult woman to enjoy, he thought as he listened to the wind in the trees.

"You'd rather freeze?"

"Yes."

Erik rolled his eyes. "You're not only irritating, you're stubborn," he said under his breath as he turned his back on her and walked away.

"Irritating?" Sophia questioned.

"Come, the hour is late. I will walk you to your door."

"I don't need you to walk me to my door."

"Fine," Erik snapped. "Freeze to death. Bury yourself as well, sprat."

"I still have sight in my right eye," she blurted out.

Erik stared at her a moment, slack-jawed and eyes narrowed. "You…?"

"What? Say it," she challenged as she climbed to her feet.

"You-you're blind in one eye?"

She brushed off her skirt and sniffled. "Not completely. Not yet…" her voice trailed off. With as much dignity as she could muster she cleared her throat and lifted her chin. "Philippe didn't tell you…did he? I thought that he would. He's told everyone."

Erik shook his head. "Is that why you are crying?" he asked gruffly.

"I will not trouble you with my despair, Monsieur…Erik," she said, spitting out his name.

They stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment. He tapped his fingers against his crossed arm and glanced around the empty space. Now that she had stopped crying he had nothing left to say to her.

"Philippe said you were interested in the piano," Erik commented suddenly.

Sophia shrugged. "A little."

"You've played the piano in the parlor?"

"I've, well, I've…a little," she said. She bowed her head. "Not much, Monsieur, I didn't ruin it. I don't think."

"Teaching yourself, were you?" he asked as he started back toward the main house.

She laughed softly, catching herself too late. Erik watched as she attempted to stand a little straighter. "I merely wanted to see how it sounded."

"If you'd like to learn I could teach you," he said. He stepped closer, willing her to agree. A new student, a new talent to learn music, he thought, though he wasn't sure why he had offered. He still wanted nothing to do with her, he told himself, but the opportunity to share music was something he could not deny.

"You?" she asked incredulously.

"I've played for years. I taught myself," Erik answered defensively. "Music…music is my life."

As happy as music had always made him, the statement made his heart sink. Music was the only thing he would have in life. His only hope was to be a teacher and nothing more.

"I could not pay you," Sophia murmured.

His heart was hammering, the cold disappearing as he stood before her. Over and over he told himself that she was only a foolish girl. If she wanted to learn the piano he would teach her, but if she decided against it then he would have more time to work on operas.

"You wouldn't pay me to teach you. I could teach you…just to teach you. For your own benefit, of course."

Erik held his breath, barely able to comprehend where the words were coming from.

"I am only a servant," she whispered as she glanced away.

He nodded once and decided not to pursue the issue any further. He had extended an olive branch. He had put forth much more effort than he ever had in his life and for what? A simple servant, who obviously enjoyed his company as much as he enjoyed hers.

There was no need to freeze and wait for her to accept it. She had made her choice clear.

"Good night, Mademoiselle," Erik replied. He left her at her door and turned back to his own home, his stomach feeling tight and uneasy. He knew the sensation well. Disappointment. Rejection. Another plummet for his dismal mood.

The two-story stone building greeted him with cold silence. Erik looked back once and saw the girl had gone in for the night. With a sigh he returned to the main house. His home, he thought. His empty home.


	6. A New Student

Ch 6

Erik had always dreaded sunrise. In shadows he was safe from ridicule and cruel eyes, from the leers of strangers. But by daylight each blemish was visible, each fault magnified. In the comfort of darkness there was deception. By day there was only truth, and Erik hated looking in the mirror and seeing the truth.

Throughout the night he tossed and turned and thought about that dreadful young woman he found huddled by the building. Each time he closed his eyes he saw her crouched up against the building, shivering and crying.

When he finally fell asleep, Christine filled his dreams. He remembered the taste of her lips, the warmth of her touch. It was the first time he had experienced compassion, the first time anyone had touched him, and accepted him. She had given him something he had craved for years, something that he was grateful to experience…but longed to feel again.

In his dreams she had accepted his proposal and proudly donned his ring and the wedding dress. She had been happy with him. She had touched her cheek to his and held him close. Everything he had ever wanted came to him in those moments, and everything he had ever hoped for slipped away as he turned over in bed and saw the first light of dawn.

After hours of tossing and turning and attempting to ignore the growing light, Erik rose from bed and stretched. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his reflection in the floor-length mirror staring back at him.

For the majority of his life Erik had avoided mirrors. He only felt brave enough to meet his own green eyes when the mask was in place, though since he had just risen from bed he had not yet covered his deformity.

Everything inside of him told him to look away, to cover the bad side of his face with his hand and reach for the mask, but he couldn't do it. Years had passed since he had seen himself by the light of day. He had aged, his hair thinner than it had been before, his face taut from stress.

More than the deformity, he was drawn to his own haunted visage. He barely recognized himself, this pathetic, trembling creature slowly inching toward the mirror. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the right side of his face, at the flesh so marred it looked like something from the butcher's floor.

It looked worse than he had expected.

In hopes of ensnaring Christine he had taken to wearing the mask constantly. He thought it would be best to be prepared should she come to him. She would never have to see the bad side of his face again no matter how uncomfortable the mask made him. He would have suffered an eternity to make her happy, to keep her with him.

Erik stared back at his horrible face and grimaced. There was a tender spot beneath his right eye where the mask had rubbed against his cheek bone. The skin was inflamed, red and itchy. Throughout the night he had scratched at it until it bled.

The longer he stared the more his self-hatred simmered. There was nothing in him that would ever be considered redeeming or forgivable. This, he thought as he stared into his own eyes, was the vessel of a demon heading straight into hell.

"Damn you for everything you've ever done," he muttered to himself.

A tap at the door startled him. He instinctively covered his face with his hand despite knowing the door was locked.

"Monsieur Erik, Madame Eree would like to know if you will join us for breakfast?" he heard Sophia question from the hallway.

That damn girl again, he thought.

He reached for his mask and walked to the door, his free hand running through his thin, light brown hair.

"No," he answered as he unlocked the door. He gripped the doorknob, bracing himself to be seen in daylight, dreading her reaction to the mask. "I wish to dine alone."

Erik looked away as he opened the door. He waited for her to gasp but she said nothing. She barely looked at him as she walked through the door and placed a tray with a carafe on the desk.

"You wish to remain undisturbed?" she asked with her back to him.

"For the moment."

"Are you expecting someone? Perhaps a guest will join you?" she ventured. The spoon tapped against the rim of the cup as she swirled lumps of sugar into his coffee.

He walked away and turned his back to her. "No. Why would there be a guest? Why should I expect anyone?" he growled.

"Friends, perhaps," she offered as she took a half-step back.

What friends? He wanted to snarl but the thought was too painful to earn his voice. He glanced over his shoulder and watched her as she worked.

"I prefer my privacy," he said at last.

"Then I suppose I am bothering you now?" she asked.

"No," he answered quickly. Too quickly. "Not entirely."

She smiled as she looked over her shoulder at him and nodded. "Good. I would hate to entirely bother you, Monsieur."

He nodded uncomfortably, uncertain of how he felt being in the room with her.

"Your mask," she said before pouring cream into the coffee. "It is crooked."

Erik instantly placed his hands over his face and moved away from her, panic filling him as he thought about what she may have seen. He groped along his hairline until the covering was back in place.

"Monsieur Erik, I do not mean to impose, but perhaps it would be more comfortable to leave your face uncovered."

"Experience has taught me differently," he answered as he turned to face her. He stared at her with his eyes as hard and cold as stone.

Sophia stood to the side and stared straight ahead. "I thought about what you asked last night, about the piano. I think I would like to learn to play," she said. "Does your offer still stand?—Do not nod, Monsieur Erik. I cannot see you. The….the condition I have…."

"My offer still stands," he answered before she finished. He didn't intend to stare but it was impossible. If she was telling the truth—and by the pained look in her eyes he was certain that she was—then she could not see anything with her left eye.

"Good. I was afraid I had lost my opportunity to enjoy music," she said with a slight smile.

"If you honestly want to learn music then I will give you lessons, but you must understand something, Mademoiselle. I only teach serious students."

Once he finished speaking, Erik wished he could swallow his tongue. He looked away briefly before staring at her again. She looked taken aback by his words.

"Serious? Oh, I only wished to learn a few songs. I-I don't want to perform for anyone."

"I suppose I could make an exception," he said gruffly, his hands clenched into fists. He wanted to share his love of music, to interact with another human being in the only way he knew how to. Music was the only thing he knew, the only thing he still loved that would never desert him. If she agreed…he could share something, something he had only shared with…

"May I have my first lesson tonight, then?"

"I…well…I suppose," Erik stammered.

"Tonight," she confirmed. "I will meet you in the parlor an hour past supper."

"Tonight…" he repeated her words, acutely aware of what was happening. He could barely believe he had asked—and that she had agreed. "…after supper."

She smiled, her eyes still staring straight ahead. "I will bring your lunch later. If you need anything there is always someone in the kitchen."

He didn't move a muscle as he watched her leave, his fallen mask held in both hands.


	7. The Ghost Upstairs

For all of you rereading the original: you will notice major changes here. Please review and tell me what you think. Also, welcome new readers!

Ch 7

Sophia had spent weeks rehearsing her routine throughout the household. Before Monsieur Belmont's arrival she would walk from the parlor to the kitchen with her eyes closed, her hand skimming the narrow walls as she mentally counted the steps.

She walked up and down the stairs with her eyes closed as she slowly forced herself to memorize which step was uneven and which hallway floorboard was loose. Day by day she relied on her other senses until she could see the manor in her mind's eye.

While she folded sheets in the vacated bedchamber she thought about how she had sat motionless for a long while after the physician told her that her eyesight would not improve.

"How long do I have?" she asked.

The doctor shrugged. "You still see, no?"

She nodded, her throat too tight to answer. At first she thought she would simply need spectacles for reading, as her vision was blurred when she sat at night reading or knitting. Then slowly it changed. When she was out in bright light she saw halos in her vision.

"You're very young, Mademoiselle Dupree. Your eyesight may not deteriorate further for many years," the physician replied.

Sophia folded the last of the sheets and tucked them away in a chest at the foot of the bed. She glanced around the room and sighed.

It could have been much worse, she knew. She could have been completely blind. At least she could still recognize people from short distances.

As Sophia walked from the bedroom at the end of the hall and passed Monsieur Belmont's private quarters, she paused a moment and listened. She could hear him tapping his hand on the desktop and humming. Composing, she thought with a wistful smile.

She stood at the top of the stairs and closed her eyes a moment, bracing herself for the walk down. She could still see his face hours after she had spoken to him in his private quarters.

His eyes were so haunted, so filled with sadness. She had never seen such a face, regardless of its scars. From their brief encounters she knew he was gruff and defensive, though she couldn't bring herself to blame him for his actions. People were cruel and his eyes told a story of a child who had experienced the worst of humankind. A child who had been replaced by a bitter and lonely man, Sophia thought to herself.

She walked into the kitchen and wondered if he would be a good teacher. Perhaps it would draw him out of his shell, she thought. There didn't seem to be much further he could hide.

-0-

Erik hoped his first full day at Belmont Manor would be the hardest, although his heart ached knowing nothing would ever change no matter how long he lived there. He would live in the spacious house and occupy the single room until his last breath was drawn. The thought made him want to scream, to destroy the manuscripts of music he had labored over throughout the day.

For the life of him, Erik could find no salvation in writing page after page of music if no one would dare to listen to a single note, if no one would dare to share his love. While he wrote he thought of Christine, and the longer he thought of her the more bitter he became.

Periodically he rose and paced the room, smearing ink into his fingertips as he passed the mirror and double bed. His emotions gravitated from loving her unconditionally for the one gift she had given him, to extreme rage as he thought of how she had left him.

Each time he passed the mirror he cursed his reflection. It was easier to blame the right side of his face than the broken, cowardly man hiding inside.

When evening approached a tray was delivered to his room by a woman who breathed loud and hard. Erik didn't bother turning to acknowledge her presence. He sat hunched over his music, his face contorted as the nameless, faceless woman left his meal and told him to enjoy. He didn't understand why but he would have preferred Sophia. He wasn't fond of her but at least she was familiar.

Miserably, he dined alone, feeling like an animal that had ensnared itself in a trap. The house staff dined below him, their voices surprisingly clear through the floorboards. Monsieur Monteclaire and a servant woman named Anna were the loudest of all.

As he expected, their conversation waltzed around where their new master had come from and why he had arrived with less than a day's notice.

"Such strange people come from Paris," Anna said. "He didn't even turn when I brought him his dinner."

"He's a very private person," Philippe interjected.

"Did you hear about the opera fire? Poor Madame Giry! Her entire life was in the Opera Populaire and for it to no longer exist?" Monteclaire said.

Erik felt a sting of shame and guilt. He placed his fork on the edge of his plate and stared at his food. Once that night had ended he had seen his mistakes with overwhelming clarity. He had been a desperate, ignorant man with a foolish plan. It would never have worked. He had deceived Christine for years, building her confidence by giving her an angel. He knew it was over the first time she had seen his face.

Yet still he tried, his madness and compulsions driving him up and down through five cellars as he watched her through the mirror, from the catwalks, and on the rooftop. Each time he saw her, he wanted to possess her even more. It was like a disease overtaking his heart. Soon, she was all he thought of day and night. He stopped sleeping so he could write music and draw sketches of her, so he could arrange the figures on the stage as he envisioned her becoming the lead soprano.

She would love him, he had assured himself. She would love him because he would make her into a star.

And then she left him, sniveling, broken, and more alone than he had ever been. When she turned her back on him, she issued a blow that resonated through him now just as strongly and just as painfully as it had that night.

Agonized, he reached for his wine glass and knocked it to the floor, sending shards of glass floating on a burgundy river.

"Damn it," he whispered, burying his face in his hands.

"What has your Aunt Ann told you of Monsieur Belmont?" Anna pressed.

There was a long silence filled only by the clinking of flatware and dishes.

"He has had a run of misfortune recently. His house was destroyed," Philippe revealed.

Erik could almost feel his butler's reluctance. Philippe knew something. Or, more likely, he knew everything. Ignoring the mess on the floor, he sat at the edge of his seat and listened, his hands clasped in his lap.

Anna laughed. "Perhaps his home was the opera house?" she chuckled. "It seems fitting for such an eccentric man."

"You do not know him, Mme Eree. How would you know what suits him?" Sophia snapped.

The dining room went silent. Erik's jaw went slack at her words, and for a moment he expected her to laugh at her own jest.

After a while other voices unrecognizable to Erik picked up bits of conversation about apple orchards and dairy cows, things he didn't know existed on his property.

"How much longer do you think he will stay in his room?" Anna asked as the conversation found its way back to Erik's enigmatic life.

"As long as he desires," Philippe replied. "What do you care? If he is not here he cannot see how little you do."

The woman snorted. "Rene said our new master wears a mask. What happened to him?"

Erik tensed. Now he would know how much they truly knew about him.

And how quickly he would need to leave this place in search of refuge.

"I know nothing," Philippe said.

"And you, Mlle Dupree, what did you see as you went prying about?" again came Anna's voice.

"I was not prying."

"You certainly raced up the stairs to give him his tea."

"I will not speak of a man not here to defend himself," Sophia hissed. "You should all be ashamed of yourselves." A chair scraped the floor. "I will see if he has finished his supper."

"No, you will finish your meal," Philippe said. Another chair scraped back from the floor. "I will check on our little ghost," Philippe sighed. "Clear the table."

Erik was certain a plow horse could have walked the stairs with greater finesse than Philippe Dupree. Philippe knocked and called for Erik twice before he walked in, oblivious to his new master standing behind the door.

Philippe sighed. He walked to the window and glanced outside as though he expected Erik had gone down the trellis.

"Did you call your former master a ghost as well?" Erik questioned from behind the door.

Philippe spun on his heel. "Monsieur, you frightened me half to death! You mustn't have heard me knock twice."

Erik turned away from Philippe. His anger flared. "From now on I no longer employ eight servants, Monsieur Dupree. You and your sister may stay on. Excuse four of them in the morning."

"But Monsieur Belmont—"

"The floors here are paper thin. I do not take kindly to those who speak ill of people not present. Pay them their wages for the week and send them off. Do not argue with me or I shall excuse you as well."

Philippe lingered, his arms tense at his sides. "Monsieur, Sophia's eye—"

"I know."

Philippe sighed. "The physician warned that her right eye will also fail. It's only a matter of time before she's blind and…."

"And?"

Philippe's eyes narrowed. "I heard you take her to the door last night and offer her lessons."

"I did. She refused."

"And this morning she seems to believe that you will still teach her."

"If she is willing to learn," Erik replied.

Philippe raised his chin. "Forgive me for my frank nature, but what do you want with my sister, Monsieur Belmont?"

Erik turned and faced Philippe. "I want to teach her music."


	8. A Different Lesson

A/N For those of you unfamiliar with the story: This is a rewrite of the story Shadows of the Past. This version includes many things I thought of after I finished the story. Thank you to all of you rereading. And for all of you joining the story for the first time: Welcome! Please review and enjoy!

Ch 8

Sophia sat as far to the right of the bench as possible and waited for Erik to enter the parlor. She tapped her foot on the rug before she realized she did the same with her nails against the bench.

There was no reason to be nervous, she told herself. He was her employer and he had been gracious enough to offer her lessons.

"Good evening, Monsieur Belmont," she practiced. She took a deep breath and tried again. "Hello, Erik, how are you this evening?"

Neither would do. The first seemed so callow and the other too forward. She wanted to be friendly—but not too friendly. The last thing Sophia wanted was for her new employer to think she was false.

She exhaled through her mouth and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the keys, which made her jump as the piano made a sound of protest.

The clock chimed. An hour had passed since supper and her new teacher was nowhere to be found. She stuck her tongue in her cheek and felt her shoulders fall. This was all a mistake, a strange and silly mistake. At least Philippe would be happy, she thought. Philippe would send Karl Turro a letter and tell him that she was still available for courtship.

Sophia tapped on the keys and glanced over her shoulder at the clock. Two more minutes had passed. The longer she sat the bigger a fool she made of herself. With a sigh, she started to rise.

"He isn't coming," she whispered to herself.

"Who?" she heard Erik's voice.

A smile crept onto her face as she turned. His presence startled and delighted her as she had not heard the door creak open or click shut. It was as though he had entered without opening the door.

"I didn't think you would come," Sophia said as she sat down again.

"I'm afraid composing took over my sense of time."

"You compose music?" Sophia asked. She knew he composed but she didn't want to sit in silence as she watched him walk through the room, blowing out candles and turning down the lamps.

It alarmed her that the room was suddenly nothing more than shadows but she knew he did not want to be seen. He kept the right side of his face away from her as he walked through the room.

"Yes, I do," he answered at last. "I taught myself."

Sophia felt him standing behind her. She started to close her eyes, mesmerized by his silent presence. Her stomach tightened as she waited for him to take a seat beside her but he didn't move. She turned only when he cleared his throat.

"Who put the piano in here?" he asked gruffly.

"I, uh…"

"Who was it?" he demanded.

Sophia jumped, startled by his brusque voice. She had never heard anyone so commanding, so thunderous that it made her shiver yet want to come closer. It was the deepest, most intriguing voice she had ever heard.

"My brother, I believe, Monsieur Belmont—"

"He knows nothing about music. Get up," Erik snapped.

Sophia scrambled to her feet and dashed toward the opposite corner of the room, wringing her hands as she watched him throw a leather folder onto the bench. With a grunt he pushed the piano away from the wall.

"A vase of flowers?" he muttered under his breath. "Fools. Damned, bloody, ignorant fools in this damned house."

For a moment Sophia thought that he would throw the vase across the room, but he set it on the floor in the corner where the piano had been for months. When he was finished he dusted off his hands and whirled around to face her.

The tightness on the visible side of his face disappeared when he saw her cowering. With a sigh he gathered the sheets of music from the folder and turned away from her.

"You cannot learn to play the piano by standing in the corner," he said.

"Perhaps another night," Sophia said quietly.

He turned to face her again, his brow lowered in a scowl. "You've reconsidered my offer?"

Sophia slowly shook her head. "No, no it's just…"

"Just what?"

She held her breath for a moment and braced herself. "You seem rather angry."

Erik lowered his eyes and took a step back. His left hand touched the top of the piano and he gave a curt nod.

"Another time," he said. His words hung in the air for a moment in the still room. Sophia heard only the clock ticking and Erik panting hard from pulling the piano into the center of the room.

Curiosity got the best of her and she turned her head to the side. "Why did you move it, Monsieur?" she asked.

"The temperature changes may cause damage," he said as he took a step forward, his hand remaining on the top. "It was against the outer wall."

"And….the flowers? You don't like them while you play?"

"Water damage," he answered. He stared at the ground when he spoke, his lips moving slightly when he paused. "I wouldn't order a new instrument until spring, and although I have a violin upstairs…"

"How many instruments do you play?" Sophia asked. She stood in the center of the room, her arms at her side.

"I can play anything handed to me."

Sophia chuckled softly.

"Why is that amusing?" Erik snapped.

Sophia shook her head and shifted her weight, taking another half step forward until she was standing beside the bench. "It's not amusing; it's just that you seem very…confident when it comes to music." She glanced at Erik and smiled. "You must be very gifted, very talented to be able to play anything."

"Perhaps not anything," he said under his breath. He looked away from her first and began shuffling through music.

"I don't think I will ever be able to become good at the piano," Sophia said under her breath. She added quickly, "But I would like to learn. I will practice nightly if you command it."

"We will see," he answered.

-o-

A sheet of music escaped Erik's nervous hands and fluttered slowly to the ground, coming to rest at Sophia's feet. He stared at it a moment, his palms sweating, his nerves on end. He could barely believe she had shown up for her lesson. Following his dinner he expected her to retire for the night, leaving him to walk into the parlor and find only darkness.

He watched as she knelt down and looked over the music, holding it a few inches from her face. "An original?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered, his heart pounding so fast he could barely hear her speak.

"Are you going to play it?" she asked.

"Now?" he asked.

She took a small step back. "If you would prefer not to play…"

"You want to hear it?" Erik asked before she finished speaking. He held his breath, willing her to nod, to give him permission to share his music.

"If you wouldn't mind," she said, coyly. She handed him his sheet of music and looked away. "Unless you think it's too late…"

No one had ever asked to hear him play anything. Her request left him speechless, his mind muddled and his stomach in knots. While he stared at the sheet of music he dissected her words, wondering if she was being sincere or mocking him.

"I will sit to your right as you play," she said quickly. "If you don't mind."

He watched in silence as she smoothed her skirts and sat on the far end of the bench.

"You wanted to learn to play. You won't learn by listening to me play."

Sophia bowed her head. "For tonight I would rather listen to you play. As—as inspiration since you're the artist, the one with the talent, Monsieur."

"Erik. I prefer Erik."

"Erik," she echoed.

He sat beside her and arranged the sheet music slowly, praying that she wouldn't see his hands trembling. Turning away, he coughed into the crook of his arm, his throat feeling tight, his hands sweating.

"Are you alright?" Sophia asked.

"My throat is dry," he managed to say.

"Oh, well, I will bring you a glass of water."

"No, it's fine," he said quickly, fearing she would leave and not return.

Their shoulders touched briefly and Erik froze. The sensation overwhelmed him, frightful yet warm and welcomed to his years of solitude. He took a deep breath to clear his mind only to find his thoughts further mangled by her scent. She smelled like freshly cut apples. It was the sweetest thing he had ever smelled in all of his life, the most intoxicating scent ever created.

His breath caught in his throat. A strange thought passed through his mind of cupping her face in his hands and slowly tasting her lips. He wondered how soft her hair would feel against his fingers, how her breath would feel against his face.

_My God! _He suddenly thought, alerted by his sudden perversions. _I've learned absolutely nothing!_

She was merely a servant, a maid employed at his manor. Nothing more, he reminded himself. She would be nothing more than a student and a maid.

He started to turn toward her, then remembered himself and stared at the music again. How could he look at her when he had just imagined her covered only in rose petals? Surely she would know his wicked thoughts the moment she turned toward him. Then what would she do? Slap him?

"Erik?" Sophia questioned.

"I, I brought several pieces down," he stammered. Erik had to force himself to breathe, to sit still rather than thrashing about. Everything he did felt counterproductive. He was afraid that if he said something more Sophia would guess what was on his mind. Likewise, if he said nothing at all then she would assume his mind was still filled with lurid thoughts.

"Do you have a favorite?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered as he sifted through the pile. "But…I suppose it doesn't matter."

Sophia clasped her hands and stared straight ahead. Erik glanced at her and found her patiently waiting for him to make his choice. His eyes flashed away then settled back on her face where a ringlet of black hair hung beside her cheek.

The overwhelming desire to tuck the loose hair behind her ear caused him to release the papers. He rammed his elbow onto the keys, which made both of them jump as the sheets of music spilled onto the floor.

"Goodness," Sophia said. "Perhaps it is a sign that you should memorize your work."

"I have," he answered obtusely as he fell to his knees and gathered the sheets, folding and crinkling them as he attempted to arrange them swiftly.

"All of them?" Sophia asked.

He glanced up and found her twisted around on the bench as she watched him. Once their eyes met she shyly turned away.

"Would you like me to help?" she asked quietly.

"Your work is done for the day, is it not?"

"Yes, but if you wanted me to…no, you're right. I am done for the day."

"I apologize," he said, though he wasn't sure why he needed to apologize. The look on her face made him feel as though he had done something wrong.

"I just thought…" her voice trailed away and she folded her arms.

Erik's frustration grew as he realized he had no idea what he was doing. He nearly crumpled the sheets of music into a ball, tossed them into the refuse bin, and stormed out of the room. He needed time to think, though he had no idea what he wanted to think about.

Without looking at Sophia, Erik rose to his feet and sat beside her again, refusing to utter another word.

_I am to teach her music, nothing more. God in Heaven bedding her should be the last thing on my mind. She would laugh in my face if I so much as smiled at her. This is an arrangement, a favor to her, not to myself. She cares nothing for you. Only music. It will only ever be music._

_And that is enough._

He started to look at her again but stopped himself.

"Even if you did turn toward me," she whispered, her arms dropping to her sides, brushing past his as she set her palms flat on the bench. "It is far too dark for my eyes to see you."

Erik closed his eyes and nodded, breathing her sweet scent into his lungs. With his hands above the keys he attempted to clear his mind of the young woman sitting beside him.

She was already within him, wrapping herself around his thoughts with each breath he took.


	9. Mounting Frustration

Ch 9

Erik returned to his room for the night and paced the floor until the lamp light sputtered and died.

It didn't matter that he was shrouded in darkness. He could still smell her in the air, and that made him exceedingly apprehensive.

He continued to pace in the darkness, forced to stop only when he stumbled over the chest at the end of the bed. He could hardly keep his eyes open, but he couldn't sleep.

All he could do was think of that girl: the warmth resonating from her body and the smell of her hair, the sound of her voice, the way she sat beside him...

Why was she still on his mind? She meant nothing to him. Absolutely nothing. The only thing he needed from her was hot food brought to his bedchamber and clean sheets to turn down at night. That was all. Nothing more.

He stood in the center of the darkened room and crossed his arms.

The longer he remained awake the more he started to wonder if it was possible to die of frustration.

By the time Erik finally closed his eyes the sun was peering over the trees. He groaned and buried his head beneath his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut in a vain attempt to reverse time. All attempts ended once he heard a soft tap on the door.

"Monsieur?" Sophia called.

Erik released a long, growling sigh. There she was again, the woman who had kept him awake all night was at the door.

"Monsieur?" she called again, this time her voice peppered with uncertainty.

Erik couldn't remember if he had locked the door or not, so he shot out of bed and scrambled to dress. "A moment, Mademoiselle," he called back.

"I'll bring your tea later," she replied. "I apologize."

He heard the tinkle of silverware and china rustling around on the tray. He could picture her balancing everything as she negotiated the stairs.

"Oh, for the love of God," he muttered under his breath. "I said a moment," he snarled, pressing both palms to his forehead. He glanced in the mirror, finding his eyes ringed in black and his hair—the hair he had kept hidden for so long—smashed down against his skull.

Not even a mask would improve his appearance.

"Give it here," he said, holding one hand out as he stood behind the door.

She responded with a chuckle. "Are you indecent?" she teased.

He didn't want her in his room, and he sure as hell didn't want to see her. "Yes," he answered.

"Oh," she said. He waited, hand outstretched, other hand clamped against his face. "Oh."

Erik's hand lowered, his outstretched fingers curling back toward his palm. "I said…hand it to me."

"It's rather heavy, Monsieur," she warned.

"Mademoiselle—"

"Very well. Do you have it," she asked, pushing the tray into his hand.

"Yes."

"Al—"

Everything slid out of control, although he sensed it and knew exactly what was happening, what disaster was about to befall. Frustration growing, Erik swore as the contents of the tray fell in the loudest, most horrific heap possible.

"As I expected," he heard Sophia mutter.

His face burned as he slammed the door shut and turned the lock, resisting the urge to kick or throw something. Arms crossed, he paced the length of the room, legs stiff, arms crossed, jaw clamped shut with such force that it hurt.

He heard her stomping and muttering as she disappeared down the steps, leaving Erik to seethe alone in his room, which was what he intended to do. He would sulk, seethe, and blame that ignorant girl for handing him the tray before he was ready.

"Stupid, ignorant," he muttered. His eyes caught his reflection in the mirror and he knew who deserved those names.

With another growl of lost patience he snatched the rubbish bin from its place near his desk, unlocked the door, and knelt on the floor, one hand over his scarred face while he picked shards of broken glass from the floor.

"I'll do it," he heard Sophia say through her teeth.

"I'm capable," he muttered in return, not bothering to meet her eye.

"It's my duty," she said, stopping at the top of the stairs. She looked away, muttered something under her breath that he couldn't hear, and added, "And it's my fault, I imagine."

"Imagine," he said under his breath, furiously tossing shards into the bin, his hands trembling in anger. He knew he should climb to his feet and walk back into his room. There was no need for him to remain out in the hall, to remain before her. There was no reason.

"You've—Monsieur, you've cut your hand, I think."

He ignored her and scooped a handful of sugar from the floor, which infuriated him more, as honey and milk had blended into the granules, which made it stick to his fingers and the palm of his hand.

Within moments the small sliver that had entered his fingertip bled into the sugar and he paused, staring at the mess he had made, his small cut, and the dark shoes that had stopped a foot away from where he knelt.

She didn't have to say anything. He knew what she would say, felt it in the air like a static charge. _If you took your hand away from your face it would be easier._

"You need both hands," she said quietly. "Here, I'll finish."

Still he ignored her until a jagged piece of glass pierced the palm of his hand. Swearing, he rose, slammed the door with his foot and slumped to the ground with his back to the door, pulling out the shard and tossing it carelessly across the room. His chest was heaving, his face, he knew, was flushed.

In anger he wiped his hands on his pant legs, sending a smear of sugar, honey, milk and blood down his trousers, which he ignored in favor of self-pity. The cuts looked worse than they were, which did nothing to improve his mood. Small, superficial wounds that mocked him, he thought. He couldn't manage a life-threatening injury, something substantial. It had to be meager, a flesh wound, something on the surface.

"Damn it," he muttered.

Sophia said nothing as she cleaned the glass, tossing it noisily into the receptacle. He heard her humming to herself before she finished and walked down the stairs again.

Once she was gone he climbed to his feet and went to the window where he saw her walk through the last of the snow, her breath visible in the air. She rounded the building, disappearing only for a moment to dump the glass. Within minutes she was back inside and up the stairs.

"Do you still want tea?" she asked through the door.

He wanted to ignore her, but he felt miserable seeing her walk out in the in cold without her cloak.

"No," he said weakly, his mind more clouded than it had ever been before. She meant nothing. She couldn't mean anything to him. It was wrong of him to make assumptions, to lay awake all night thinking of her face, of the way she sat, of the tone of her voice when she spoke and laughed and sighed.

He cleared his throat and spoke loud enough for her to hear him. "No tea."

For a moment he thought she had turned and left. The relief he expected to feel never came. He was disappointed that she returned to work without saying another word. Alone, he nodded. It was better this way. It was better to know he was alone than to wait for…no, this was better. There was no waiting. There was no need to wait.

And then…

"May I come in?


	10. Compassion for Another

Naturally I had problems. Sorry about the snafu!

Paladin10

Sophia wasn't sure why Erik was so angry. She bit her lip and stood in the hall with her ear against his door, wondering if she had done something wrong during her first piano lesson.

While she waited she could still see him in her mind as he crouched on the floor, his right hand covering his face, his left rummaging through broken porcelain, glass, and food. She had studied him a moment, while his frustration grew, while his hands trembled so much that he dropped more on the wooden floor than into the rubbish bin.

The new master was so focused on his task that he didn't notice Sophia examining his hairline, which started out straight and neat on the left side and pulled back in an exaggerated curve on the right side. She hadn't intended to stare, but since he wasn't looking at her, she had seen no harm in it.

Her heart had drummed with sympathy, as she expected he had no idea that his hand wasn't high enough, and that he had planted his thumb in the middle of the reddened, hairless patch above his temple.

She wondered what kind ofan accident he had suffered.

Sophia shifted her weight and sighed, giving him a moment to answer her knock. She hoped he wasn't upset with her. The previous night had been pleasant—awkward, she reminded herself, but still enjoyable. The music he played was passionate, so filled with anger and intensity, drenched at times with something she couldn't quite describe. She could do nothing more than close her eyes and listen, imagining what he envisioned when he wrote each symphony, each aria, each concerto.

At the end of the evening he apologized for not giving her an opportunity to practice, but she replied that she had been thrilled to merely listen. With a curt nod he had walked from the parlor and retired for the night.

He had barely said a word while they sat side by side. He cleared his throat between pieces, muttered the title under his breath, and continued to play. Once he was gone she could still feel him in the room, the lingering presence of his genius.

The last thing this man wanted was sympathy, she told herself. She imagined his life was filled with people tiptoeing around him, looking at him warily and avoiding a direct gaze. She knew from experience how humiliating it was to have her brother insist that she couldn't do anything because of her eye, or the other women in the kitchen giving her duties a child could accomplish.

She would not treat him differently, as long as he returned the favor.

Sophia took a deep breath and knocked again.

"Monsieur—"

"I'm fine," he growled.

"My left foot," Sophia muttered.

She could hear him rummaging about the room. It sounded like he was shuffling through papers, though several times she heard him cursing, which made her blush.

"I have a towel for you," she said to the door. "Are you still bleeding?"

A long silence followed, one she assumed was caused by his pride.

"No," he said, hesitating. "Not really."

Sophia smiled to herself. She had cleaned Gabe's, the horse master's son, hand late in autumn when he cut himself on a piece of tack. He had fussed something awful while she washed it out and made certain stitches were not needed. All the while, through each exaggerated sigh and weight shift, she knew Gabe had been fascinated by her womanly ability to care for him.

"May I see?" she asked as gently as she could.

She heard the lock turn but the door remained closed. Sophia waited a moment, her tongue rolling around the inside of her mouth. After it appeared he was not going to open the door for her, she reached for the doorknob.

Sophia nearly fell into the room, as Erik opened it at the same time she turned the doorknob. Instead of catching her, he hit her with his shoulder and roughly took hold of her arm, lifting her off the floor, which made her yelp in surprise.

In an instant he released her and turned away, folding his arms over his chest. Sophia chuckled softly, attempting to lighten the mood.

"I make quite an entrance, wouldn't you say?" she asked.

He glanced at her from over his shoulder but said nothing, which she had grown to expect from him.

Sophia cleared her throat. "Would you like me to check your hand?"

"There's nothing to see," he answered, turning enough for her to see he was masked again.

"Oh."

He turned to face her again but didn't look her in the eye. "It's…superficial."

"Oh," she said brightly, craning her neck to see the injury.

He held out his hand to show her his blood-stained fingers and the shallow cuts.

Sophia touched his fingers and turned his hand over, examining both sides. His skin was cool to the touch and he shook slightly, which Sophia assumed was in anger of being treated like a child. Still, he didn't protest her doting over his injury.

"It doesn't appear bad at all," she said with a nod of approval. "Mere scratches, really. Like something from a feral kitten." She chuckled softly. "At my parents' old vineyard there was a cat that had kittens in the shed and I went in to" She caught herself on the verge of becoming too comfortable in his presence and stopped. "…Oh, I suppose it's not important, really."

When she glanced at his face he was staring at her with such intensity that Sophia couldn't help but stare back, her light green eyes set on his gray-green gaze. He looked as though he were in tremendous pain, though Sophia hadn't seen any cut deep enough to cause concern.

"Monsieur?" she questioned, gently cradling his long fingers in her hand.

Almost immediately he tucked his hand beneath his arm and turned away from her again, muttering something she couldn't understand.

"Then if you are not injured badly, lessons will resume tonight?" Sophia asked.

He stiffened at her question, glancing at her briefly, his brow furrowed. "You wish to continue your lessons?"

Sophia nodded readily despite Erik looking away from her. "I enjoy music."

Erik said nothing. He still watched her from the corner of his eye, his head titled down, his lips parted.

"If you wish to continue teaching me…"

He nodded at last. "Twice a week," he said gruffly. "If time allows."

"Oh, after dinner I am free to take lessons…or…or did you mean to say when your time allows?" she asked, blushing deeply. She clasped her hands behind her back and stared at her feet. "I apologize for being so presumptuous."

The door opened before Erik replied. Sophia turned to find her brother standing with his hands behind his back and his eyes burning a whole through her chest.

"Visiting?" Philippe asked.

"No, I was…there was…I brought tea—"

"I heard you drop the tray."

"I didn't," Sophia stammered, glancing at Erik for assistance. His eyes were trained on Philippe, his jaw set in a scowl.

"Sophia, your duty here is complete. You may return to the kitchen," Philippe said gruffly.

"But tea—"

"I will bring tea myself since your…condition…prevents you from such tasks."

Sophia bowed her head, her cheeks burning from his words. She slipped through the door, but not before Philippe took her by the arm. "Monsieur Turro is paying a visit after supper. Make yourself presentable. This may be your last chance to receive his attention."

"I—"

"There is nothing left for you to say, Sophia. Go," he commanded, releasing her arm.

Monsieur Belmont's door closed before Sophia could protest. With a sigh of frustration she returned to the kitchen, dreading Monsieur Turro's visit.


	11. An Inviting Storm

Paladin11

Erik hardly realized that Philippe Dupree was still standing in his bedchamber. He had turned his back toward the door and stood staring at his hand, ignoring the small cuts along his palm and fingers.

He was still imagining Sophia's gentle touch as she examined the wounds. The longer he stared at his outstretched hand the more he memorized each moment, each passing heartbeat in which he held his breath and watched her touch him.

Voluntarily.

He hadn't asked, hadn't begged, and hadn't made demands. He had been reluctant to allow her into the room, into his private quarters. But she had come willingly. To him.

She hadn't recoiled, hadn't stared at the mask. She had treated him as though he were human. She had done what no one else had ever attempted.

His insides felt strangely warm. The cuts to his hands no longer smarted, and the anger he had felt forever mounting inside seemed to diminish the longer he stood staring at his hand.

Just as quickly as he felt something pleasant inside it was gone, brushed aside by the familiar cold he had lived with all his life.

Erik knew the feeling that had come unbidden. He knew it and he hated it.

But still it lingered.

"My God."

"So you see, Monsieur…pardon me?" Philippe asked.

Erik glanced at his butler over his shoulder. "You may leave."

"Sir, with all due respect, I must ask for your assistance in keeping my sister under control. Now, I realize that this is not your duty, but I feel she is becoming…"

"I said you may leave," Erik replied as he flexed his fingers. He spun on his heel and glared at Philippe, daring him to say another word.

"As you wish, sir," Philippe muttered as he saw himself out the door.

Erik sat at his desk and placed both of his hands on the table. He remained stock still for a long time and studied the back of his trembling hands, feeling a tidal wave of anger building inside of him, the familiar wall of rage that encased him. With as much patience as he could muster he removed the mask, lifted his eyes, and stared into the mirror.

Any warmth that he had felt turned to ice. The trembling turned to violent shaking, to agony so intense that he doubled over onto the desk and struggled to breathe.

Yet he stared back at those eyes, at those hallow, unfeeling eyes. He dared himself to search that terrible face, to examine those wicked scars, the uneven flesh, the face of the devil.

This was what that poor girl didn't see, what she didn't know. This is what would have made her turn away in fear. This is what could have sent her screaming from the room, praying for her soul as she escaped him.

"No," he whispered, attempting to convince himself. No, he could not fall again. He could not tolerate false affection, sympathy, charity. He could not relive the disaster he had created with Christine.

"You deserve nothing," he said to his reflection.

Once he could no longer tolerate his self-inflicted torment, he allowed himself the mask and stood again, brushing off his sleeves and straightening his back. The anger he felt always at his heels had not left him but it had trailed behind, allowing him a moment of peace. Sometimes there was a whirlwind of blinding anger, sometimes he stood in the eye of the storm. Erik wasn't sure where he stood anymore.

He knew for certain that he could no longer see this woman. In any part of the Manor. Ever. The lessons would have to stop, he would have to ask someone else to bring his tea, and he would have to ask her to leave.

Guilt curled inside his gut as he thought of releasing her on account of her bad eye. In the back of his mind, Erik heard what Philippe had said, that his sister was promised to another. It was her last chance, whatever that meant.

No, he thought, he knew what that meant. It was an end to his foolish endeavors, to his flippant desires. There was no desire. There couldn't be. He would want and she would recoil in disgust once she saw what lay behind the mask. She would retch at the truth. He was an employer, not a suitor. He had hoped to be a teacher but that was a dangerous title, one he could not obey.

As much as he attempted to convince himself that he cared nothing for this girl, he still couldn't rid himself of her soft touch, the phantom warmth still clinging to his wounded hand, and the wounded man who had turned his back on the mirror.

-o-

"Perhaps you should sit," Citrine said once Sophia stood in the center of the kitchen, staring blankly at the steam rising from a pot on the stove. She took Sophia by the hand when she didn't respond and tugged her into a chair. "Stand like that all day and you'll become a statue," she teased.

"Pardon me?" Sophia asked.

Citrine giggled. "Does he have a name?"

The insinuation jolted Sophia from her daydream and she twisted in her chair, watching the new cook as she smiled over her shoulder.

"All good daydreams have names," Citrine said.

Sophia hadn't expected to like Citrine. The first day the new cook had arrived, Sophia attempted to find as many things wrong with her as possible: starting with her long, red hair and ending with her easy laugh.

It was impossible not to enjoy Citrine's company, and after several days Sophia found she thought of Citrine as a sister rather than a replacement. They would sit together in the kitchen and laugh as they peeled vegetables or prepared dessert.

"Sophia, you have me worried," Citrine said as she gripped Sophia's hand.

"I'm concerned," Sophia said. She forced a smile to mask her daydream.

"About what?" Citrine questioned.

Sophia pursed her lips and thought a moment. She wasn't sure why she was concerned, but she had felt something unexplainable when she looked into the new master's eyes. The expression on his face when she looked from his hand to his eyes was unlike anything she had seen before. He stared at her as though he had no idea how to react.

She had started to question him before he pulled his hand away. When he turned it had been like a whip snap jarring her from a daydream.

"Sophia?" Citrine questioned as she sat beside her. She tapped on Sophia's shoulder. "Are you certain you're fine?"

"I'll be fine," Sophia answered. She took a deep breath and turned to Citrine. "Now give me something to do."


	12. Walking Alone

_A big thank you to all of you reading the story the second time around! Your comments are very much appreciated. I sincerely hope you enjoy reading it over, especially since it now sounds nothing like the first story, and that is a good thing!_

_On a side note…if you go to my website (Gabrina) dot com you will find a link to my café press store. A few of my readers made some cool items for you to look at. If you choose to buy anything—and it's all story related to either Paladin or "Heart" and "Ghost" Erik the proceeds will be donated to the ASPCA._

_Thanks for reading!_

Paladin12

The longer Erik remained in his room the more restless he became. He paced back and forth past the window, watching the red sun descend into a pink horizon. Once the sky turned indigo and the darkness was dusted with stars, he donned his gloves, fastened his cloak, and tossed the hood over his head. With one swift glance in the mirror, he disappeared quietly down the stairs.

From the hall he could hear Citrine yelling at Gabe to stay outside. Erik held his breath a moment and waited to hear who else was in the kitchen with her, but Gabe seemed to have done as he was told. Once he was certain she was alone he passed the doorway and made his way toward the front of the Manor where he traveled unnoticed into the cold quiet of the winter night.

The sharp sensation of chilled air entering his lungs was welcomed, and as Erik rounded the corner of the building he was tempted to close his eyes and stand for a while, listening to the trees creak and an owl in the distance hoot as it hunted mice.

It had been weeks since he had ventured into the night. Though Erik was accustomed to the streets of Paris, it lightened his mood to stand in the country where his only company was trees.

His pace quickened as he followed the stone-lined path toward a distant dark thatch of trees. He thought about Madame Giry's note and agreed at last. He needed to explore the grounds. He needed to escape the constant torrent of thoughts that had been building within his mind since the morning.

Before Erik knew it he had walked up the hillside where he was met with a short fence. He walked along the fence beneath the moonlight until he found the opened gateway. For a moment he hesitated and glanced back at the sprawling estate at his back. He imagined a painter would have been content sitting on the hillside and gazing down at the snow-covered grounds. The Manor puffed clouds of gray smoke into the night, the scent of wood smoke carrying on the breeze.

Something about the stillness paralyzed him. He stood for a long time, his arms wrapped across his chest, his breath visible in the air. Once he was certain he was alone he removed the mask and leaned against the fence.

As peaceful as it was, Erik had never felt more isolated, more completely separated from the rest of humanity. Beneath the opera house he had been confined, but now he stood in the vastness of it all.

And there was no one.

He forced himself to sit a while longer with the intention of entering the orchard. His mind was still wrapped around Sophia. The night would not have felt so cold with her beside him.

Erik shook his head in disgust. He told himself repeatedly that he couldn't entertain these thoughts, but still she was on his mind, her voice in his head, her smile a vision that intrigued him.

"Any compassion she feels for you was created in sympathy for a damned recluse. She feels sorry for you, nothing more. Pity. It's nothing more than pity," he said aloud, hoping the words would finally convince him.

Bit by bit he pushed away the threatening numbness and climbed to his feet, feeling the cold enter his cloak for the first time.

Erik made no attempt to wrap the cloak around his body. He strode along, his eyes straight ahead, tearing in the cold air.

When he crested the next hill and found another fence he stopped, chest heaving, nostrils flaring. Sweat dampened his brow as he surveyed the land ahead. A shiver passed through him, which signaled that it was time to return to the Manor.

Voices ahead changed his mind, and with his mask returned to his face Erik lingered in the shadows and waited for whoever had ventured into the orchard to pass.

"We should return," a woman said. The voice made Erik's hands clench into fists.

"It's a nice night," a man replied.

Erik pushed his back against the tree he hid behind, his eyes wide in the dark, straining to see her face. He silently berated himself for wanting to see Sophia. All day she had infiltrated his thoughts. This solitary walk was meant to remove her from his mind.

"Yes, but Philippe will worry—"

"He knows you're safe with me, Sophia."

"Karl, I would prefer returning home. My duties start quite early in the morning, the new master—"

"The one with the mask? Is it true what Philippe said, that he's never seen without it?"

Sophia didn't answer.

Erik titled his head back and closed his eyes, reminded all too well of the night he saw Christine with the Vicomte on the rooftop.

"What do you suppose is wrong with him?"

"There is nothing wrong with him," Sophia snapped. "He's reserved."

Karl snorted in return.

Surprised by her comment, Erik peered around the corner. She had defended him. Why had she bothered to defend him?

"Reserved? Your brother tells me he's never left his room. He takes dinner alone in his room, he released the majority of the servants—and what's this I hear about him teaching you the piano?"

"May we return? I'm cold," Sophia replied, ignoring Karl's question.

A long silence followed and Erik peered into the night, searching for the couple in the darkness. He held his breath and waited until he heard a twig snap and found two dark forms side by side.

Once he realized their backs were to him he stepped out from behind the tree and watched them disappear down the hillside. Just before he lost sight of them, Erik saw Karl place his arm around Sophia.

Erik bowed his head and waited for them to gain distance ahead of him. His heart had started to pound, and a familiar aching stretched within his chest.

* * *

Erik was forced to leave the orchard as the wind picked up and hissed through the barren trees. Snow began to fall again, which caused him to quicken his pace and return home. His stomach growled, as he had left before supper, and with the servant's homes dark he expected he had missed his chance of eating a warm meal for the night.

To his surprise, there was dinner on the dining room table when he walked into the Manor, his nose running and body shaking from the cold. He dusted snow off his shoulders before he passed through the threshold and entered the darkened dining room.

For a moment he stood and stared at the single candle, unsure of whether or not the food was intended for him. Deciding it was his home and he would be damned if it was waiting for someone else, he pulled out the chair and snatched his fork and knife from the table.

A bottle of wine set to the side caught his eye and he held it toward the light to examine the label.

Dupree Vineyards was printed on the front.

"Dupree," he whispered.

"My family owned the vineyards down the road," Sophia said.

Her voice startled him and he dropped the bottle on the table. It didn't crack, but the bottle rolled away. Sophia caught it on the other side before it toppled to the floor.

"You do not seem to have much luck with glass, Monsieur," she said softly as she set the bottle upright and stepped back from the table. "And this, I dare say, is one of the finest wines you will ever enjoy. My father bottled it himself."

Erik ignored her comment. "Your duties are done for the day, Mademoiselle," he said under his breath as he trained his gaze on his plate.

"Citrine left dinner for you. I heated it again once I noticed you were not in your room," Sophia replied, choosing to ignore him.

"Do you need something?" Erik snapped.

Sophia shook her head. "Do you need anything?"

"No," he answered quietly, his patience waning.

Their conversation ended and Erik ate in silence, watching Sophia from the corner of his eye. Her presence became unnerving, and after he finished his glass of wine and felt warmth return to his body, he looked in her direction and gruffly asked her what she was doing.

"Waiting to take your dish and glass," she answered innocently enough.

"Then take it," he said as he pushed his chair back from the table.

"You are finished?"

Erik didn't answer. His stomach still growled but he refused to eat with her standing over him. He couldn't be near her a moment longer. She was creating the most intolerable writhing sensation in his gut, something unlike anything he had ever felt before.

"How is your hand?" Sophia asked.

Erik stared at her in the darkness and wondered if she could see him in the night. He studied her face, the slight smile on her lips as she looked at him.

"It's fine," he answered. She waited and he sighed, unaccustomed to pleasantries. "Thank you."

The smile widened into a grin, which made Erik increasingly uncomfortable. "Good," she said as she took his plate. "Perhaps tomorrow I may resume my lessons?"

Erik stared at the doorframe. He couldn't think of an excuse to deny her, so he nodded curtly. "If you do not have an engagement, Mademoiselle."

She shifted uncomfortably but didn't address his harsh tone of voice. "Good night, Monsieur."

"Good night," he said quietly as he walked into the hallway. His fingers grazed the wall and he took a deep breath. "Mademoiselle."


	13. Escape

Paladin12

By dinnertime Erik felt like a knot being pulled tighter and tighter. He wished he had never agreed to give Sophia piano lessons. He wished he had never offered to teach her, to share the same space with her, to smell how tantalizing a woman…

With a closed fist, he turned on his heel in the middle of his room and searched for something to punch. For a moment he considered hitting the dresser but knew he would damage his hand. Hitting the wall would create a hole, and with a full house beneath him, an unwelcomed stir. Frustrated, he was left to stew.

Erik cursed softly and continued across the floor, his skull throbbing from the coiled tension.

He had not asked for this. When Madame Giry had sent him away he had expected a quiet house in the countryside, a tiny wooden shack, weather-beaten and leaning to the side, not a vast Manor with servants.

Yet that was what he found waiting for him once the carriage came to a stop and the door swung open. He had an estate purchased with funds extorted from the opera house's foolish, frightened managers. An estate he did not deserve, he thought balefully.

Erik had asked himself a thousand times why he insisted on tormenting himself. He should have learned from Christine that what the rest of the world enjoyed could never be his. He would know nothing but the rejection she had shown him.

"And she did it to save him," Erik muttered under his breath. "You pathetic fool, it wasn't for love. It was for _him_. She kissed you to save him."

Erik shuddered at the passing thought. It had been nothing more than a duty, than a performance for an audience of one. Christine had kissed him to save her fiancé and escape the hell Erik had dragged her into. That was what he had become: a kidnapper, a pathetic and thoughtless fool forcing her into his darkness.

He deserved the humiliation of being unmasked before the crowd. He deserved the heavy, haunting remorse that followed him every day, the echoes of gasps and shrieks of horror that followed his greatest moment of shame.

Regret gnawed at him each day and night he continued to exist, as he picked apart each detail that led to submerging Christine Daae in his underground hell.

His vision began to fail. The thoughts were too much to bear. He had to do something before he blacked out.

"Monsieur, you have a letter," Sophia called as she tapped on the door.

Erik froze, hand still raised, heart still thumping, unsure of whether the voice was real or imagined.

"It is from Paris," she tempted.

He was too ashamed of himself to do anything at all. He would somehow manage to harm her if he answered, and the last thing he wanted to do was ruin the pleasant memory he had of her sitting beside him in the parlor. That was something he could carry with him forever, something he could take to his grave.

As he thought of how she looked sitting beside him, Erik merely waited and hoped she would leave, though deep inside he knew she wouldn't walk away until he answered. She would not go unnoticed. She would imbed herself in his memory.

"Monsieur? Are you in?"

"Slide it under the door," he growled.

There was a brief silence followed by the rattling of the doorknob. She was attempting to enter, he thought miserably. That damned girl is attempting to enter this room.

"It's a thick envelope. I'm not certain it will fit, Monsieur."

"Then leave it in the hall," he said, his voice disappearing before he finished.

"Are you certain?"

Tears streamed down his face as he stood with his back to the door, his head bowed. Everything he ever wanted stood behind doors. An iron cage door, a sliding mirrored door, and now a heavy wooden door. Compassion, friendship, love…

Erik couldn't tolerate everything being just out of reach a moment longer. He wanted his life to return to the way it was before he had first seen Christine. He wanted peace and quiet, the conversation of music he had always enjoyed. Music he could feel in his soul even if he could never touch it. This damned girl was driving him mad.

His knees began to shake and he was forced to sit and weep like a child. With his face in his hands he cried as silently as he could, praying that God should spare him at least one moment of humiliation.

"It's from Aunt Ann," Sophia said brightly, apparently unaware of the misery he had shrouded himself in. "Quite a lovely envelope. But you must be busy with your music, no? A new work for tonight, perhaps?" She waited a moment for him to answer. He hated himself for quivering, for sitting doubled-over on his bed and praying she would leave him be.

"I will leave it outside the door, Monsieur."

She waited for him to speak again but he couldn't bring himself to utter a word. His throat was so tight he could barely breathe.

"Dinner will be up shortly. Good evening, Monsieur."

Erik tore his hands from his face and stared at the closed door. He could hear the stairs creak as she returned to the kitchen for his supper. His whole body felt heavier, weighed down with despair as he realized he didn't want her to leave. He wanted to ask her in but he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to beg her for a little of her time.

With a deep breath, Erik forced himself to calm down. There was no use blubbering like an infant. He had to retrieve his letter and hope it contained funds, as he would need at least a small amount of money to take the train back to Paris. Food would be a concern later, as would other expenses.

What had she said? A letter from Aunt Ann?

It didn't much matter what she said. By nightfall he would leave this place for good.

Erik climbed to his feet and began rummaging through the dresser drawers and the small wardrobe. Whatever he could carry he would take in a sack and forget this place, this attempt at being human. Before he had even begun he had failed. Now it was time for what he did best: disappear into the shadows.

By now, he mused, the opera house would be abandoned and in need of a ghost.


	14. Wood

_I just wanted to thank all of you who are reading my other stories for checking out this one. And to all of you who are just getting to know my Eriks: welcome! I really appreciate your feedback. _

Paladin14

"This house is freezing!" Sophia said as she entered the kitchen.

"Warm in here," Citrine answered with a smile as she grabbed a towel and opened the oven. "Do you think Monsieur Belmont is fond of chocolate?"

"I'm not certain. He doesn't seem fond of heat! The upstairs must be as cold as it is outside," Sophia complained as she plucked her shawl from the hook on the wall. She shivered again and rubbed her hands together. "Did Gabe chop wood this afternoon?"

Citrine groaned. "I don't think he did anything this afternoon. He's the laziest man I've ever known."

Sophia rolled her eyes when Citrine wasn't looking. It was obvious that Citrine was in love with Gabe or she wouldn't have gone out of her way to nag and complain.

"Well, I will see if he would bring firewood into the house."

Citrine glanced over her shoulder at Sophia. "He's gone, Sophia."

"Gone?"

"Yes, didn't you see Monsieur Monteclaire this afternoon? They were traveling to the vineyard with your brother."

Sophia made a face. The vineyards had belonged to her mother and father, but after her mother died of small pox and her father died of drink and a bad heart, the vineyard had been relinquished to her two uncles, who were attempting to sell the property.

It broke her heart to see the place neglected into ruin over the winter. She knew Philippe would attempt to convince their uncles to leave managing and productivity to him, as he had helped their father in the fields and in the office for years.

"Well, I suppose I will fetch wood."

"Perhaps Monsieur Belmont would retrieve it?" Citrine suggested.

Sophia made another face. "He's…writing."

"Are you certain he's still there? It's been some time since I heard him pacing about."

"Where else would he be?" Sophia said with a sigh. She reached for her cloak and missed, but drew her hand back before she jammed her finger. With a deep breath she tried again.

"Very true," Citrine smiled. "He's a very shy man, isn't he? I've only seen his back."

Sophia was about to ask Citrine if she had seen the mask but decided it was best to hold her tongue.

"He's…kind…" she said, not knowing what else to say.

"Oh, I'm certain he is. I haven't seen much of him, although he is new to the house. I suppose it takes a bit of readjusting to…where did he come from?"

"He lived in Paris. My aunt knows him."

"Ah. I see."

With a shrug, Sophia added, "He's quite talented. I've heard his music and it's…it's beyond description. I could feel it almost as much as I could hear it. Does that make sense?"

Citrine laughed. "Not at all."

Sophia felt her cheeks redden. She was complimenting a man who seemed to want nothing to do with her. She should let him be.

But she couldn't. She could still see his eyes when she thought of him. One masked, one unmasked, both sharing the same deep sense of torment and inner turmoil. For as gruff as he was she sensed he was far more lonely than angry. And it made her heart ache to think that someone so talented lived within a single room.

And shared his music with no one.

"Well, he's a very good composer. And he's freezing, I'm sure! Unless he enjoys the cold."

"Be careful, Sophia," Citrine warned with a soup ladle in hand. "That wood is heavy, and you must be very wary of ice beneath the snow."

"I will only be a moment," Sophia promised.

-o-

"I've only seen his back…"

Erik could hear Sophia and Citrine in the kitchen when he crept down the stairs, feeling increasingly foolish with each step. He was ashamed of himself for secretly leaving, but he was too desperate to escape to allow the thought to germinate. He needed to leave this place and that girl.

He had two thousand francs from Ann Giry stuffed in his pocket and the unread letter folded neatly in the other. He didn't much care what the note said. He would never see her again. If he had his druthers he would never see another man or woman for the rest of his days.

"He's kind…"

The words made him pause in mid-step as he turned his head. He was kind. Was that what she said? Surely he had heard wrong. No one would describe him as kind. He stole money, food, stage props and lives. He kidnapped a woman and threatened to murder her fiancé. He was not kind.

He was a monster.

"He lived in Paris. My aunt knows him."

Erik's lips parted as he found himself like a fly stuck in honey. He wondered what Ann had told Sophia and Philippe, what secrets she divulged.

_She wouldn't betray me_, he convinced himself. _She wouldn't help me escape and then lead the gendarmes to me. _

"He's quite talented. I've heard his music and it's…it's beyond description. I could feel it almost as much as I could hear it. Does that make sense?" Sophia asked.

Slowly Erik eased his back against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment. He wanted to hear those words, but not now, not when he was attempting to flee. His hands balled into fists. Those words were empty promises, little snowflakes of hope that would melt the moment they fell into his open, waiting hands.

This was how he was going to die: standing in a hallway listening to Sophia as she gave him a bleeding ulcer.

"Well, he's a very good composer. And he's freezing, I'm sure! Unless he enjoys the cold."

Erik had to leave before she brought firewood inside. He forced himself to trudge ahead, taking only a small bag of clothes, the letter and money, and the dwindling hope that he could return to the opera house and live amongst the vermin.

As much as he wanted to look back he forced his eyes to stare straight ahead. It was better to leave it behind, better to forget than allow expectations to simmer.

The short chapter of his life was now over. Humanity would not have him, but darkness and quiet would embrace him with cold, unsympathetic arms.

-0-

Sophia slipped several feet from the back door and landed on her side. She swore softly, made the sign of the cross, and rose to her feet. Glancing around, she dusted herself off and proceeded around the corner.

"Oh, Gabe!" she said under her breath. "One log! Is that all you could chop, you fool?" she grumbled, wondering if perhaps Citrine was correct.

The cutting stump stood dusted in snow, with the ax stuck in the center. Sophia rubbed her hands together before she reached for the ax handle. Gripping it tightly, she gave it a tug.

And fell into the snow again with the ax mocking her.

Slapping the ground, she climbed to her feet and tried again, this time wiggling the ax loose. It was much heavier than she expected, so she set it in the snow and watched it fall with a heavy thump. Sophia took a deep breath and grabbed a piece of wood, setting it upright on the block.

For a moment she wondered if she could hold the ax over her head and chop wood. It was either chop several pieces or freeze, and as it was, she was freezing.

Perhaps she would be forced to ask Monsieur Belmont for his assistance. With a sigh she picked up the only log left outside, then remembered that Gabe's father kept a woodpile in the front of the home that stood between the main house and the smokehouse.

"Smart as a whip, Sophia," she said to herself as she rounded the corner.

Her feet came out from under her and she let out a yelp as the log slipped from her hands. Closing her eyes she braced herself for impact on the frozen ground. What she hit was solid but warm.

Sophia remained stock still, unsure of what had happened. She could feel someone breathing heavily on the top of her head. Then, as though her mind was slowly registering the world around her, she felt hands holding painfully tight to her arms. And a chest against her face, the smell of cedar in her nostrils.

"Please let me go," she said against the chest moving up and down against her face.

The hands slowly loosened and she felt him push her away. The man muttered something under his breath once her feet were firmly on the ground. The individual stepped back and turned away, though his size distinguished him.

"Monsieur Belmont?" Sophia questioned.

He didn't reply but Sophia noticed he was holding the only piece of chopped wood.

"Oh good, you saved the wood as well," she said with a slight chuckle, hoping he would say something in return. When he merely glanced at her from over his shoulder she wrung her hands and bit her lip. "I seem to be rather clumsy around you, Monsieur."

"Go inside," he said gruffly.

"I can't Monsieur," she said.

He turned to stare at her, though Sophia couldn't tell where his eyes were, as the hood he wore was deep and covered his face down to his nose. She felt very small beneath his scrutinizing gaze—because she was certain he was glaring at her for her obtuse comment.

"There's no wood," she blurted out. "Only that one piece. The house is freezing, Gabe and his father are gone, as is my brother and—"

He turned and walked away from her and as if she were attached by a string, she scuttled along behind him.

"Are you out for a walk this evening, Monsieur?" Sophia asked. She wanted to bite her tongue for continuing with her one-way conversation. She knew she was irritating him.

"No," he answered, which surprised Sophia.

He threw the log on the snow and tossed a small bag beside it. Sophia nearly tripped over the ax, which was still lying where she had left it. She stood for a moment with her hands clasped until she realized she was standing over the ax.

"Oh," she said as she hopped backward. "Oh, you were coming to chop wood?"

In one smooth movement he unclasped his cloak and set it over a low tree branch. As he turned she saw him unbutton his waistcoat and then set it aside.

"You'll…freeze," she said softly.

Erik glanced at her but didn't reply, which made her blush. She wasn't sure why he made her blush but she stepped back until she was beneath the tree where he couldn't see her face in the moonlight.

His every movement was fluid and graceful, unlike anything she had seen before. Sophia watched as he set a piece of wood on the block and hefted the ax without a word. She felt as though she was watching something intimate, though she had often seen Gabe and his father chop wood as well as many other men who worked at the vineyard. There was nothing intimate about it, but still she felt as if she should avert her eyes.

But it was impossible to look away. Sophia was mesmerized by how he stood with his feet shoulder's width apart. He wasn't barrel-chested or particularly muscular but he was tall and lean, long-legged. He grasped the ax in both hands and let it fly, sending the first block of wood flying into two pieces.

Sophia started to gather them but he glared at her. "Out of the way, lest you want an ax through your back, girl."

His cold words were warning enough and she scuttled to safety again, standing beneath the tree with her face burning at his tone.

Erik moved swiftly, driving the blade through several blocks of wood until he had created a small pile. Once he finished he tossed the ax in the snow again and turned toward Sophia, the visible side of his face glossy with sweat, his chest heaving. He stared at her briefly and Sophia moved forward slowly, her heart beating wildly.

"Th-thank you," she said.

He nodded once, his light eyes still fixed on her face. Sophia felt as if she were standing before an unfamiliar dog, one that would either snarl or wag its tail. The only thing she could do was stand and wait for him to acknowledge her.

Erik looked away first and exhaled, his breath rolling through the air. He looked as though he was deciding something, as his brow lowered and his shoulders rose slightly.

"Where does this go?" he asked as he crouched down and gathered several logs.

Sophia pointed toward the back door. Before she knew it he strode away, leaving her to collect his waistcoat and cloak.

She tugged the cloak from the tree branch and folded it neatly in her arms, smelling him in the fabric. Her eyes closed again and she could still see him splitting wood. The thought made her smile to herself before the wind picked up again and the end of the cloak slapped her in the face, signaling it was time to return inside.


	15. Drinking Chocolate

_9/10/05 announcement: September 13 starts my vacation time. I will try to update this story on Monday. I will be gone for about 17 days this month BUT will update at least once next week while on vacation._

_Thanks for following the story. I apologize for the delay. I never abandon stories! I will return to Paladin regularly once I am home again._

Paladin15

Erik was livid by the time he entered the parlor and set the wood by the fireplace. He tossed two logs in and watched while the dead hearth turned into popping, orange embers. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he stood and stared at the fire, feeling his hands ache from grasping the ax.

He should have allowed her to fall in the snow. She was not his concern.

But instead he had caught her. He could not comprehend what had prompted him to reach out, grab her by the arms, and pull her into his grasp.

Erik closed his eyes and sighed. My God, he had not wanted to release her. Her hair smelled like apples. In the middle of winter she smelled like apples, of all things. She felt so soft against him, soft and helpless. And she had leaned her head against his chest as if she was not afraid.

But that was impossible, a fact he discovered to be true the moment she asked him to release her.

His intention was to send her back into the house and disappear into the night. He hadn't expected her to say that she could not return indoors. Though considering everything he knew of her, he should have known she would prove to be difficult.

It was in her nature, he discovered, to drive him absolutely mad.

No, he told himself, she was so daft she didn't realize what she did. All she knew was that she was cold.

Her innocence infuriated him. She didn't know who he was or what he had done. She thought he was kindand that,above all else, angered him. And he had no idea why that made his nostrils flare and his heart race, why the sight of her made his insides churn.

"Because I'm a damned fool," he said under his breath as he rubbed his knuckles over his lips. "Because one mistake was apparently not enough. I must do it again. And then what?"

His intention was to destroy his anger by chopping wood. Each strike was meant to quell the fire pulsing through his blood, but in the end he was left exhausted and still angry.

Sophia was still there staring at him in a way no one had ever done before. He wanted to ask her what she was looking at but he couldn't form the words in his mouth. When he turned away his only thought was that she had told Citrine that he was kind.

Each time he split another log those words had echoed in his mind. He wasn't kind. He was cruel. Thoughtless. Callous. Heartless. A monster inside and out. What did she see when she looked at him?

"She's going blind," he muttered cynically to himself.

Erik instantly regretted his cruel thought. He closed his eyes to the fire and exhaled, uncertain of why he cared. This damned girl!

"Monsieur?"

Erik gritted his teeth. There she was yet again at the door. Did she not exhaust herself?

"Yes?" he said without bothering to turn.

"I have your clothes," Sophia said. She paused and Erik opened his eyes, eyebrow rising at the absurdity of her comment. He had nearly forgotten his cloak and vest. "Citrine made hot drinking chocolate. It's very sweet," Sophia continued as she pushed the door open a little wider. "Would you like some? I brought a cup."

"Leave it here."

"Do you like chocolate, Monsieur?"

Erik hesitated. Her questions unnerved him, as no one had ever before asked anything of him. He considered not answering her but knew she wouldn't leave otherwise.

"I've never tasted chocolate," he said gruffly.

He heard her gasp as though he had revealed something horrific. Erik fought the urge to turn and face her.

"Never?" she whispered.

"No, never," he answered, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

"Oh, you should try some. Citrine makes very good drinking chocolate, especially if you enjoy sweets. Do you enjoy sweets?"

He wanted to ask her what it mattered. It was no concern of hers whether he liked sweets or not. She had no right to question him. But he couldn't growl at her because his mind was being pulled in two directions, and one side was winning the battle.

Erik turned slowly and found that Sophia had inched closer, her hands cupped around a demitasse cup. His mouth started to water merely from the sight of steam rising from the cup and the smell of chocolate in the air.

He took it from her hand without a word and brought it close to his lips, inhaling the scent.

"I added cinnamon," Sophia offered. "Do you like cinnamon?"

Erik grunted and turned away, taking a small sip.

He had never tasted anything like it before. The texture surprised him, as it was thick, and the taste was so rich that it was like drinking honey.

Erik tipped the cup back and started to gulp down the rest of it but Sophia yelled, which startled him so greatly that he nearly dropped the cup.

"You'll burn yourself," she said.

Erik nodded, feeling foolish. He took another small sip and kept his back to her.

"Do you like it?" Sophia asked. "I wasn't sure if you liked cinnamon but Citrine insisted that everyone loves cinnamon and, well…I apologize."

He glanced at her briefly before turning his attention back to the drinking chocolate.

"My mother once said," Sophia blurted out but stopped herself. He heard her take a breath. When she spoke again it was in a whisper. "I cannot help myself. I apologize. If you need anything more—"

"It's very sweet," Erik answered as he turned to face her.

_What in the hell am I doing?_ He asked himself. His heart stopped as she glanced up and met his eye.

"Yes, it is," she said, her voice still low.

"Is there more?" Erik asked.

Sophia giggled. "A whole pot. But here, you've a spot on your chin," she said as she came forward and wrapped the corner of her apron around her finger.

Erik realized what she was doing and stepped back, running the back of his hand over his chin. He wasn't sure if he should be more insulted or mortified by her actions, though he knew for certain that he couldn't look her in the eye.

She was tangled in his thoughts. Everything he felt was inappropriate and needed to be pushed aside. He couldn't have feelings for her. He couldn't feel anything for this girl.

Or anyone.

Christine had shown him the impossibilities of love. He had to remember the bitter lesson she had taught him. It should have been a warning to avoid further pursuits.

"Will you take dinner in your room tonight, Monsieur?"

Erik hesitated again. When it suited his mood he could contain his anger. He knew from years of experience that he could smooth his erratic emotions with a simple coat of numbness. He had grown accustomed to the cold that built a wall around his insides, and eventually he no longer acknowledged his loneliness. Solitude was all he knew, and from his childhood he understood the safety of darkness.

He merely needed to nod and he could return to the safety of his bedchamber, turn the lamps down, and write his music. He could return to the life that had kept him sated for so many years.

"Citrine and I are eating in the dining room," Sophia continued.

Erik glanced at her and saw her cheeks redden. She was speaking out of turn again.

"I just thought perhaps you would care to join us…because Gabe and Monsieur Monteclaire and my brother…" Her voice trailed off as she met his eye again. "I just thought."

A tap at the door drew their eyes toward Citrine, whom Erik had never seen before. He stared at the red-haired young woman for a moment before he turned away. As if he were suffocating.

"Good evening, Monsieur," she said in an Irish accent stronger than he remembered.

"Mademoiselle," he said without looking at her.

"Dinner is served," Citrine said.


	16. When Wine Flows

9/21/05 The story finally continues! Thank you for continuing to read. Will try to update again before Tuesday.

Paladin16

The wind was howling against the front of the house as Erik started toward his room for the night. He could feel blisters forming on his palms from swinging the ax. He assumed he would feel the ache of hard labor through his shoulders, arms and back later in the night or the following morning.

"Would you be more comfortable at the dining room table?" Sophia asked before he disappeared into his room.

He hesitated, his back to her as he considered her words.

"With you and Mademoiselle Citrine?" he asked, unsure of the cook's last name.

Sophia hesitated. "If...if you wish," she said quietly.

She turned heel in the hallway before Erik could answer. Just as he began to tell her he would stay in his room she called to Citrine to set three places at the dining room table.

That damned girl! His shoulders bunched and jaw tensed as he squeezed his eyes shut.

"The food is ready," Citrine reminded them as she popped out of the kitchen and walked down the hall until she was visible to Erik from his place at the top of the stairs. She glanced from Sophia to Erik. "We must eat right away. Cold food is very bad for your health. People have been known to die from eating cold food."

Erik exhaled and cursed under his breath. A moment's hesitation had earned him a place at the head of the table with two servants, one of which was quickly giving him an ulcer and a headache.

Once Sophia had wandered into the kitchen, Erik walked slowly down the stairs and into the dining room. The two girls had just finished bringing dinner to the table. They stood back once he appeared, both slowly removing their aprons. Once they exited the room, he sat at the head of the table and glanced around. A peculiar, heavy feeling formed in his stomach, threatening to replace his hunger.

Sophia and Citrine appeared a moment later, both hesitating, their hands on the backs of their chairs. Just as Erik realized they were waiting for him to rise and seat them, they pulled their chairs out for themselves and sat, exchanging glances across the table.

The moment they all sat together Erik wanted to bolt from the room. He could feel himself teetering on the edge of disaster.

"Have you seen the snow is falling again?" Citrine asked suddenly as she shoveled beef onto Erik's plate.

Erik glanced from her to Sophia, unsure to whom she was speaking. As soon as he realized it was he she was questioning he promptly answered, "No."

Silence filled the air again, heavier than before.

"Well, we have firewood enough for tonight and tomorrow, so I'm not concerned," Sophia said at last.

"Perhaps Philippe, Gabe, and Monsieur Monteclaire will arrive later than expected," Citrine commented.

Sophia shrugged. "I think Philippe would beat the horses to death to drive them through the snow, even if it was twenty feet high," she said, her voice icy.

"Wine, Monsieur?" Citrine asked upon noticing Erik staring at the unopened bottle of Dupree.

He nodded and plucked the wine bottle from the table. He filled Citrine and Sophia's glasses as well as his own, though he failed to notice their shared glances as he drained and refilled his wineglass.

"Monsieur, you have come to us from Paris, no?" Citrine asked as she took a cautious sip of her wine.

"Yes," he answered.

Citrine nodded. "I am from Dublin," she answered. "And Sophia? What about you?"

"From here," she answered, sipping her wine.

Sophia's reply made Erik realize he had no idea where he was. He hadn't bothered to study the address on the correspondence from Anne Giry, and he hadn't asked anyone the location of Belmont Manor.

"My grandparents were married inside the cathedral."

Citrine's eyes went wide. "In Chartres? Honestly?"

Sophia nodded. "My father delivered wine to my uncle down the road from the village center. I visited Chartres with Philippe when I was much younger. We were scolded for running or being far too noisy nearly every time."

"Inside Chartres?" Erik asked suddenly, realizing too late that he added nothing to the conversation. He poured himself another glass of wine and filled Sophia's glass, which earned him a peculiar glance.

"Yes, that's right," Sophia said, swallowing half her glass of wine.

"You were running within the cathedral?" Citrine gasped.

Sophia nodded. "My father made me walk the labyrinth on my knees."

"The whole thing?"

"No, only one or two quadrants. If I were to have suffered through the whole thing I might still be there," Sophia replied, taking another sip of her wine. She glanced at Erik, who took it as a signal to refill her glass.

"How far is the vineyard from Chartres?" Citrine asked.

Sophia played with her glass as she thought. "Perhaps an hour at the most," she shrugged. "Everything seems to take forever when you are young." She glanced at Erik, pulling her wine glass toward the edge of the table to keep him from pouring more wine into her glass. She considered her glass a moment before taking another sip.

Sophia pursed her lips and shrugged again as she looked at Citrine. "My father also threatened to throw me in the river, but I had learned how to swim, so it wasn't an effective threat."

"For what?" Citrine asked.

A forlorn look entered Sophia's eyes and she didn't answer. She sighed, picking at her food a moment before draining her wineglass.

Citrine continued eating in silence, while Erik did the same, glancing briefly at the two girls. Neither of them took notice of his presence, so he took the given opportunity to watch them from the corner of his eye. His gaze constantly fell on Sophia, who seemed saddened by the mention of her father.

He wanted to ask her what had happened to her parents, as he had few memories of his own.

"You know he told me once that those gargoyles atop the cathedral would come for me one day if I continued to run about the church like a beast." Sophia shuddered at the memory, her words slightly slurred. "Those terrible, twisted, looming things! They were always staring down from their high places just waiting to snatch a little girl. Father was always attempting to frighten me with those ugly things."

Erik continued to stare at her, his brow furrowed, his heart hammering. He was the terrible gargoyle, the beast silently looming, waiting to snatch a little girl from the ground and whisk her away to his dark kingdom. He was her nightmare.

"Monsieur?" Sophia questioned.

Erik blinked, realizing he had been staring at her. "My apologies, Mademoiselle," he mumbled, reaching for his glass as he lowered his eyes.

His arm nudged the wine bottle, which teetered to the side. Sophia reached out to keep it from falling and tipped her own glass over, splashing wine onto the table. With a gasp she released the wine bottle, tipping it toward Erik. He caught the bottle before it fell, though Sophia had shot to her feet and run to fetch a towel.

Before Erik knew what had happened, Sophia was sprawled out, her feet in the dining room and her torso in the kitchen.

"My God," Citrine gasped as she climbed to her feet.

"I'm fine," Sophia answered, though by the trembling in her voice she was quite shaken up. With Citrine's help she sat up and rubbed her right shoulder.

"What happened?" Citrine asked as she knelt beside Sophia.

"I—I hit the doorway with my shoulder. I—I wasn't watching where I was walking," she said, her voice breaking at the end. She covered her left eye for a moment and wiped the tears from her eye.

"It's fine, Sophia. You did nothing wrong. Come, I'll help you home," Citrine offered. She glanced up at Erik, who was standing by the table, then turned her attention to Sophia. "Here, take my hand. I'm sure Monsieur Belmont will assist you as well."

"Give me a moment," Sophia said as she pressed her knuckles to her eyes. She sighed and fanned herself, blowing air past her lips. Her actions sent loose strands of hair flying around her face.

With a curt nod, she lifted both arms, and Citrine took one. Erik looked away as he took her hand and helped her to her feet. She lost her balance and fell against him, her chin digging into his chest.

"I apologize, Monsieur, I don't think I am myself," Sophia said as she dug her fingers into his arm.

Citrine quickly put her arms around Sophia and pulled her away. "I will see her in for the night, Monsieur. If you wouldn't mind, I will take her to the guest room for the evening."

Erik nodded, releasing Sophia and turning away. Without another word he left the dining room in favor of his bedchamber. The moment he reached his bedroom door he heard loud thumping on the front door.

Moments later Citrine spoke again. "Monsieur…Turro?"

"Philippe sent me. Where is Sophia?"

"I, Monsieur, we were not expecting anyone. Sophia is not feeling well and—"

"Sophia," Turro said. Erik heard him stomping his shoes in the foyer. He inched toward the stairs until he saw Karl Turro's profile. "There you are. Your brother…sent me…what's wrong? You look ill."

"I'll be fine," Sophia muttered as she turned away. She glanced up the stairs and her gaze locked to Erik's, despite him standing in shadows. "Good night, Karl."

Karl stormed toward her and took her by the arm. "You are drenched in wine. What happened?" he asked as he took her chin in his hand. "Are you…have you been drinking?"

"We had dinner with Monsieur Belmont," Citrine interrupted. "He offered—"

"He offers wine to his two servants when there is an empty house. Is that it? He serves two naïve girls drinks and then what?"

"And then nothing."

"Yes, because I arrived before he could lure you up to that room of his."

"Good night, Karl," Sophia said as she brushed his arm away.

"Sophia, listen to me," Karl started.

"I am tired," Sophia said before he could finish. "Good eve, Monsieur."

With that she was gone, and Erik returned to his room where he sat awake for the night, thoughts overflowing from his mind like wine from a goblet.


	17. A Very Long Night

Paladin17

Not even wine could bring Erik sleep. He stood for a long while in the middle of the room and stared at the mirror he had covered with his bed sheet. Behind one thin cotton covering lay a monster that never deserted him, no matter what.

With his hands laced through his hair he listened to the muffled sounds of movement from the floor below. Karl Turro was still within the house, within _his_ house. And he was watching over Sophia over _his_…

Erik shook his head lightly. She was not his, so why did he care whether or not the man had come to care for her? The most he should do for her was teach her how to play the piano. He could already sense the boundary, the narrow line he had crossed with Christine's lessons.

"A gargoyle," he said under his breath. "You are her gargoyle."

He heard Citrine's voice and glanced at the clock. It was half past midnight when the house finally grew quiet, save for the howl of wind outside. Not knowing what else to do, Erik walked to the window and stared out at the blustery night. There was not enough light to distinguish where the clouds ended and the hills began.

The lack of definition saddened him, though before his mood further soured he convinced himself that it was the wine and lack of food in his belly. More than anything he wished he had taken his meal in his room as he had grown accustomed to doing. It was better that way, he told himself as he turned toward the mirror again.

Erik forced himself forward, dragging his leaden feet across the wooden floor. It was better to be alone than to struggle for something that didn't exist for him in this lifetime. It was easier to give up hope than keep a glimmer, one small, shining reminder of how he had failed time and again.

As the sheet fell away in his hand Erik exhaled sharply, barely able to look into the mirror. He could still hear the glass breaking in his lakeside apartments, still feel the shards prick his skin as the mirrors shattered one after another.

For all of his destruction nothing had changed. Whether he could see it or not the face still existed.

As much as he tried he still couldn't shake Sophia's words from his mind. Her voice reverberated through his thoughts, her words becoming more desperate as the hours passed. By the time the clock chimed four, Erik had convinced himself that she feared him and that there had never been any gargoyles, only him. Her intoxication had revealed the truth. Lack of sleep was the only way he could bring himself to finally see what he had only suspected from the moment he first saw her.

It was strange that he could still remember the first moment he saw her. She was not so different than the rest of the servants. Her clothes were plain, her hair pinned back. She was petite, almost mousy in appearance with black hair and dark green eyes. There was nothing exceptional about her. Her waist was not small, her body not statuesque. She was merely a girl, a simple girl.

She should have been easy to forget.

But as he removed his shoes he could still feel her hand bump his as she reached for the wine bottle. The incident made him cringe. For years he had dressed the part of a man. He had acted as he desired, but choosing to imitate the sophistication he saw within the opera house. Once he was alone, Erik realized his missteps. The night was cursed from the moment he seated himself before the two women. One small, expected, cordial gesture had ruined the night.

It was simple to think of himself as normal, as nothing but a man when he was alone. There was no one to tell him he had done something wrong, no one waiting to mock his mistakes.

There was no one.

Erik glanced around the room, around the empty, heavy silence that only music could replace. It was comforting to replace nothingness with the sounds he created, with the haunting voice of a violin and the violent thunder of an organ. He could turn the violin into a wistful voice, or the piano into an enchantress. He knew music, knew his soul through sound. When there was nothing else there was song, melody, and meter. That was his life. That was where he could feel normal, accepted, in control. That was the world he knew.

Rules needed to be established, he realized, barriers that he would build himself. He would not dine with Mademoiselle Dupree again. He would never indulge in wine, conversation, or any sort of pleasantries where his staff was involved. He would devote his days and nights to music and forget that anything else existed. This would be the home he had left, the world he had lost. This would become his dark kingdom, and the downcast king would reign again. He would be what he was before Christine twisted and writhed into his mind, into his every waking thought, into his dreams and nightmares.

Inspiration came to him even before he had finished making up his mind. Lighting the lamp, he sat down at his desk and began rummaging through sheets of paper until he found enough blank sheets to write the symphony slowly churning in his mind. His hands trembled, itching for the feel of the pen in his hand. It had been months since he had finished his opera, his life's work. Now he would begin anew.

A masterpiece, he mused, he was on the edge of creating a masterpiece. To hell with Mozart and Bizet.

Erik tore his cravat from his neck, ripped the buttons from the holes, and pushed his sleeves up as he committed the notes to paper.

His muscles slowly tensed, the disaster from dinner fading away as he allowed music to wrap a firm, protective cloak around him. His eyes closed and he removed his mask, having no fear as he sat with his music, as he wrote blindly, savagely tearing the pen across the page.

Erik was completely unaware of dawn breaking over his right shoulder. He was too preoccupied with writing to notice the taps on his door, or the creaking of the hinges, or Sophia standing several feet away. He knew nothing, absolutely nothing, other than his plans to become a hollow shell, an unfeeling master of music were failing. He had tasted but a drop of humanity, and the taste was the sweetest, most bitter, most addictive libation he had ever sampled.

Sophia stood perfectly still holding a coffee tray. She was mesmerized by Erik's diligence and his disheveled appearance, by the way he held the pen and wrote upon the paper. In the early morning light she could see the ink splatters on the left side of his face and neck, his collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up. His fingers were black with ink, which transferred to his white lawn shirt as he unbuttoned his shirt at the collar. He sat hunched over, his toes on the ground and heels resting against the legs of the chair as he wrote with feverish determination.

"There," she heard him whisper as he ran his hand through his hair. A smile formed on his lips as he paused and read everything he had written. Once he seemed satisfied he continued.

While he wrote with his right hand, his left hand moved along the desk's edge as he hummed, as he composed something that she knew needed to be released on paper before he lost the tune.

Sophia watched Erik as he paused and took a deep breath, hand tapping against the desk. He muttered something, dipped his pen into the inkwell, and then sat motionless as ink dripped onto the table. A name escaped his lips in a sigh. A woman's name spoken so softly that it was like a prayer, like a secret he couldn't bear to divulge. He dropped the pen and touched the back of his neck, slightly shaking his head.

"Lost," he said suddenly. "Damn it."

Erik sat for a while, brow furrowed, eyes staring into the distance. The exuberance he had shown while writing faded, and the longer Sophia stared at him the more she realized he was now frustrated.

He glanced toward the door unexpectedly and found Sophia standing little more than arm's length away. She jumped, the look in his eyes sending a current of fear through her. Realizing his anger was building, she started to speak, desperately searching for her voice, but words abandoned her. Slowly, she backed away from him, her hands held out, her mouth still moving, wishing she could find the words to explain her intrusion.

"Leave," he said simply, rising to his feet, his hand over the right side of his face. "Leave me alone."

Sophia nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from his. She couldn't help but think that the words and his expression didn't match, that the sadness in his eyes conflicted the anger in his voice.

"Never enter this room again," he said slowly, evenly, his hands shaking as he spoke, his legs stiffening with each step. "Do not speak to me, do not look at me, do not acknowledge that I am within this room or on this estate. Just leave. Leave and never return."

Sophia's back hit the wall and she stopped, feeling her way toward the door, fingers desperately searching for the doorknob. She began to shake her head, the words slowly appearing in her mind but refusing to reach her tongue. She had no idea why he was angry with her, though she suspected it was her clumsiness at dinner.

What a fool she had been to accept the wine and become inebriated. He was insulted by her behavior, appalled by how she had fallen to the floor. She knew what it must have looked like to him, but she had been so embarrassed by falling and too ashamed of her failing eyesight to say a word. She knew the drink had contributed to her mishap, but the distortion in her vision had caused her to misjudge the width of the doorway.

"It's over," he said so quietly that Sophia barely heard him speak. "It's all over."

Sophia's hand wrapped around the doorknob, but her body was pressed so firmly to the door that it wouldn't open.

"Please forgive me," Sophia blurted out.

And with her words he froze.


	18. Chances

Paladin18

Erik stared unblinking at Sophia for a moment, unsure of what to do. In all of his years no one had ever begged his pardon. He was always at fault, always wrong. It didn't matter what he said or did, his face marred his existence. He had the mark of a monster, the soul of the devil. Nothing could change that.

But now someone offered him their apology and he didn't know why. His cynicism would not allow him to believe she was sincere, but doubt had to grapple with hope, the only thing he clung to as tightly as he did to apathy.

Hope that he could change, that his life could change despite years that passed without reform. Hope that Fate would at last show him mercy, that one day the nightmare would come to an end and he would wake a young man with the face of an angel and the soul to match.

A little glimmer of faith that survived the eternal darkness was the only thing that kept him alive. Despite the cruelty he had faced, the constant barrage of shrieks and taunts, Erik still told himself that someone would rouse him from the only life he knew. He could be different, he could be seen as different if only he could withstand his hardships a little longer.

He could be loved. If given the chance he knew he could prove history wrong. He was not yet beyond redemption.

"You…you're apologizing? To me?" he stammered.

Sophia looked equally bewildered, as he had gone from seething to stunned in a heartbeat. She nodded cautiously, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

"But of course, Monsieur."

"Why?" he demanded, retreating toward his desk. He turned away quickly, replaced his mask, and hoped to regain his strength and fierceness before her. With his shoulders back, he faced her again, green eyes turned cold and gray.

Sophia was staring at the floor when he looked at her, which gave him the opportunity to study her once more. She looked ashamed, though Erik couldn't fathom what reason she had to berate herself when she stood before a monster, a leviathan fear that had crawled from the deep.

"Because I behaved in a manner that is inappropriate for your household," she said slowly. "I am a servant now and I must behave as one."

He saw her swallow as she forced her eyes to meet his. She struggled to maintain eye contact but Erik knew she wanted to examine his mask.

It would have angered him, but she looked genuinely sorry for something he didn't consider her fault. He couldn't help but stare at her as well, though his reasons were completely different. She looked so young and unsure of herself, so in need of his approval. Her consumption had been his doing. She should have been furious with him.

"What were you before?" he asked, his curiosity getting the best of him. He inhaled sharply, taken aback by his questioning.

She smiled shyly. "Nothing," she said with a slight chuckle. She shrugged and cleared her throat, her cheeks reddening. "A Dupree. A winemaker's daughter."

Erik nodded once and realized he had no further questions. Conversation was foreign to him, as his usual communication with the outside world usually involved correspondence through notes. It was much simpler to write a letter and leave it rather than face someone. Cowardly, he thought, which added to his bitterness. He had acted cowardly.

"You are worried your employment is at stake, is that it?" Erik asked as he turned away again, beckoning his familiar anger to return.

"No, Monsieur Belmont. If you wish to release me…I blame myself for my ignorance."

Erik balled his hands into fists. Mademoiselle Dupree was not supposed to remain within his room. She was supposed to be gone from his sight, from his memory. But the longer she remained the more difficult it was to summon the rage he was so comfortable with.

Erik exhaled through his teeth, his shoulders pulling up slightly. He couldn't bring himself to demand that she leave his estate at once. As much as he wanted to demand that she gather her belongings and relinquish her position within his home he couldn't turn to face her.

However, if he couldn't ask her to leave perhaps she would make the offer.

"Should I release you from your duties?" he asked. He walked toward the window to gain distance from her and peered outside. The snow was still falling with no sign of stopping any time soon.

"That is not for me to decide, Monsieur," Sophia answered.

He sighed, and the feeling of relief he felt inside surprised him. He wanted to be relieved when she was finally gone, yet he couldn't force himself to be rid of her.

His eyes remained on the world outside of his window, his body stiff with apprehension and uncertainty. She had bought herself another moment of his time, and he was more than willing to allow her to stay.

"If you excuse me…I don't believe I could leave the Manor until tomorrow. The snow—"

"I see the snow," he snapped.

He turned to face her suddenly, his eyes as hard as stone as he searched her face. He wanted her to give him a reason to excuse her from her duties, but the longer she stayed the more he realized he couldn't ask her to leave. He wanted her to stay and he hated himself for needing something as miniscule as human contact. A ghost needed nothing. With each heartbeat his strength diminished until all that existed was raw, disgraceful, and easily destroyed. Once his title was stripped away the only thing that existed was a very desperate man, one who had been abandoned by the world.

"Do you wish to find employment elsewhere?" he asked gruffly.

She was silent for a moment, her eyes set on the floor again. "I enjoy working here," she said at last, her voice a whisper. "But I have not been appreciative of your kindness."

"My kindness?" he asked, feeling a spark of anger. No one thought he was kind. She was clearly attempting to sway him, to deceive him. He would not tolerate her lies. This was the opportunity he had searched for, the chance he needed to tell her to leave.

He hesitated.

"The lessons," she said quickly. "No one has ever offered to teach me to play the piano. And once my eye…" her voice faded away and Erik heard her inhale a ragged breath. She shook her head, unable to continue. "Good day, Monsieur. I apologize."

She started to leave but Erik stepped forward, his emotions forming an invisible string that pulled him toward her. He couldn't bear to face her a moment longer yet he couldn't tolerate being alone again. Either way he was damned. Either way she would reject him. That was the only part of humanity he was familiar with.

"Stop," he told himself. Stop this foolishness, this neediness. Stop thinking she will offer something no one else has ever been strong enough to give.

"Monsieur?"

Oh, hell, Erik thought. She assumed his request was meant for her.

Sophia stopped when he moved and glanced over her shoulder. Erik felt the heat of her body as they stood side by side. He wanted to touch her, to know that she was real. It didn't cross his mind that he wanted anything intimate from her. That, he knew, would never be. But he wanted to know what her skin felt like, to refresh his memory of how soft and smooth her hands were, how the heat of her flesh had felt against his.

He needed to know that she was real, that she felt real. He needed to know he was not alone, that her heart beat within her chest, that blood pulsed in her veins, that she was there with him. It was a strange thing to want.

Sophia turned to fully face him. She smelled like cinnamon, warm and enticing. His mouth went dry, his palms suddenly damp for reasons he didn't understand. She looked up to meet his eye, her arms straight at her side.

"Monsieur?" she questioned again softly.

"You must practice more often," he blurted out. "If you have any desire to improve."

Sophia's mouth dropped open before she nodded readily. "I will, Monsieur," she smiled at him, curtsying twice. "Tonight, in fact, and tomorrow as well, and—"

"Mademoiselle Dupree!"

Erik turned away at the sound of Karl Turro's voice. He had completely forgotten that another male was in his house, one whom he had not invited. Slowly he recovered his senses and had enough wits to return to his desk where he sat with his back to her.

"Your lessons," he said, surprised that he still had a voice, "will continue tonight at ten sharp, Mademoiselle Dupree. If you are a minute late you will find the parlor empty and your lessons cancelled. We will see how serious you are about music."

Her hands fluttered together. "Oh thank you, Monsieur Belmont! I look forward to my lessons! I will do everything—everything I can to please you, Monsieur. I swear it."

Erik nodded, his tongue rolling along his mouth, sweat beading on his brow. His only hope was that she would not do as she promised. Already he felt sparks threatening the cooled embers within his heart. If she were to do much more it would turn him to ash.


	19. Monsieur Turro's Request

Paladin19

Sophia closed Erik's bedroom door and leaned against the wall, covering her mouth with her hand. He was gruff, reserved, and awkward but incredibly charming in a way Sophia didn't understand.

What was it about this man that made her smile and giggle like a school girl? He looked so confident in his fine clothing, so sure of himself as he sat at his desk and composed. There had never been an individual who emulated masculinity the way Monsieur Belmont had as he drove an ax through blocks of wood.

But then he changed completely when he spoke. The barriers he set up crumbled the moment they exchanged words. His expression changed, the hardness around his left eye and his mouth slipped away until he seemed just as nervous and awkward as she.

Everything that had happened the previous night seemed to fade away. Sophia had thought for certain that he would ask her to leave, but he had not. He had been merciful and kind. She had known he was kind. He didn't exude friendliness, but there was something about him…something undiscovered, something she didn't understand but wanted to.

Poor Citrine was forced to listen to her gab for hours as she whispered to the cook about how shy their employer was. Sophia's mother had always complained that she was constantly chattering on about nothing. Here was a man who rarely said a word.

It was strange that she didn't really know him but she felt that they had something that connected them. They had music, she mused. She laughed to herself at the absurdity of it and pushed off the wall, her steps light, her mood as carefree as a pixie. If she didn't know any better Sophia would have sworn translucent wings had sprouted from her back. She was truly looking forward to her lessons after dinner, though more than anything she hoped he would play again for her.

He was talented, she knew, though she reminded herself that she was no musical genius. She wasn't a music critic by any means but when she watched him play it was as though the sound he created was part of him. That's what made her feel closer to him. He was sharing something, something deep and personal, something intimate. The more Sophia thought about it the more she was certain she could spend hours merely listening to him play.

She skipped down the stairs, hopped off the last one, and landed like a cat on the tips of her toes.

Her mood was instantly ruined by Monsieur Turro, who was standing at the end of the hall with his arms crossed.

"Are you intoxicated again?" he asked.

Sophia shook her head and cleared her throat. "Will you be leaving soon?"

Karl made no reply. He watched her closely, his eyes so narrowed they were like a snake's eyes, beady and slitted as they fell on their prey. His gaze made her uncomfortable and she turned to walk away.

"What does he have you do?" Karl questioned before she disappeared.

Sophia looked at the ceiling and sighed. "I serve his tea."

"And what else?"

"Nothing else," she said quickly. She turned, her own eyes narrowing. "What are you accusing me of, Monsieur Turro?"

"Sophia, please. We have known each other long enough for you to call me Karl," he said smoothly. He smiled, a surprisingly thin, cold expression. "I am concerned for your virtues, girl. A man such as himself may find other…uses, shall we say? A girl like you may be irresistible to many men. Lonely, reclusive men, unmarried or otherwise. You know as well as I do that it's not unheard of for a master to take a mistress."

Sophia forced a smile. "I assure you, Monsieur, my employer is not like that."

"He merely gets you drunk for entertainment?" Karl countered.

"He did nothing to me. You've nothing to worry about," Sophia said as she continued on her way.

"Then it will be no concern of yours once I tell your brother what I witnessed."

Sophia froze and inhaled a sharp breath. With her back to Karl she pressed her eyes closed. "There is nothing to tell, Monsieur. We were having dinner—"

"And wine."

"Nothing happened," she said evenly. "And nothing would have happened. There is nothing to tell, Monsieur."

"Karl," he corrected.

Sophia swallowed hard and forced herself to comply. "Karl," she said, feeling a small twist of discomfort in her belly.

"Without virtues a girl is nothing," he said in his deep, commanding tone. "No man will fancy a girl who has been tainted. Remember that, Sophia. And remember that men know when a woman has given herself to another man's desires."

Sophia nodded slowly, her skin feeling prickly, her head feeling light. He was frightening her though she didn't understand why. He hadn't said anything menacing or threatened her well-being. Still, she took his words as a warning. This was not a man to be trifled with.

"Tonight you shall dine with me," he said, his voice sounding deeper.

"I must help Citrine," she argued.

"Your brother has already agreed. Tonight you shall dine with me in my home."

My lessons! Sophia thought. I cannot cancel my lessons with Monsieur Belmont. She turned to Monsieur Turro and forced herself to remain calm.

"As much as I would enjoy seeing you for dinner, Karl, I'm afraid that would be impossible," she said, smiling as genuinely as possible. Her heart was thumping, thundering out of control while her palms had turned damp.

"Nothing is impossible, Sophia. You will come with me."

Before she could say another word he had turned on his heel and retreated to the parlor where he slammed the door behind him.

"I have my lessons," she said softly. "I cannot miss my lessons."

Sophia held her breath for a moment. In the room above she heard the door click shut and she knew Erik had heard everything.

As she joined Citrine in the kitchen she wondered if he would forgive her.

-O-

In the days following the opera house disaster, Erik had tried very hard to despise Raoul de Chagny.

At first it had not been difficult. The Vicomte was his reason for solitude and heartache, for the rejection he had feared above all else. It was that damned boy's fault that all of Erik's plans went to hell.

But the longer he had to think the less reason Erik could find to blame Raoul. As much as it stung his soul he knew that the Vicomte hadn't been at fault. He had merely fallen in love. It just happened to be with the only person Erik had ever loved. Rationale had always eluded Erik, and in his misery he was left uncertain. Finally, with no one else to blame he was forced to blame himself. The constant aching did not compare to the deep, sharp pain of admittance when he first thought perhaps he had done something terribly wrong.

Raoul de Chagny had not taken Christine from him. He had lost her to his own missteps and delusions. She had not been stolen. She had left him.

He remained reluctant, but overhearing Mademoiselle Dupree and Monsieur Turro had not seemed so wrong. He had eavesdropped many times on Christine, sometimes feeling ashamed of himself and other times leaving her mirror with a sense of elation. He thought that by spying he knew her, and that by coming to her as an angel she knew him as well.

This, however, was different. He had not intentionally listened to their conversation. Once Mademoiselle Dupree had left his room he needed to relieve himself. Upon opening his door he had heard voices. It was only natural that he listened to their conversation.

And even if it wasn't, he told himself, this was his house. He had a right to know what was said and by whom.

From his place at the top of the stairs Erik had sensed the girl's apprehension. She didn't want to miss her lesson. By the sound of it she would have preferred a night of music to Monsieur Turro's company.

She wanted to play the piano. She wanted _him_ to teach her the piano.

Erik shook his head. Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself, but he had heard what she said. She couldn't miss her lessons.

A willing student, he thought, a smile coming to his lips. After all these years he had a student choose to come to him. Now all he had to do was find a way to keep her. He would insist that she stay. She was his…servant, he thought, hating the word. This Monsieur Turro would be asked to leave at once as it was not his home and he had no business being here. Before dinner Erik would send a note asking him to leave.

And if he didn't leave…Turro was better off leaving before an unfortunate accident occurred.

At once Erik began rifling through paperwork, searching for the ideal composition to teach her. The prospect of her company made it impossible to think. Or was it the lack of food, he wondered? It didn't much matter. When he walked into the parlor there would be someone waiting for him, waiting to listen, willing to learn.

There would be someone waiting for him.

"A student for my music," he whispered. "If she can sing…God have mercy if she can sing."


	20. Obligations

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Paladin20

Sophia could see Karl watching her each time she walked from the kitchen table to the stove. When she glanced at him he smirked, leaning against his right shoulder as he stood in the doorway.

After a while she could no longer tolerate looking at him and sat at the table with her back to him as she proceeded to prepare dinner. The meal was still two hours away, though Sophia wasn't sure she could tolerate having him stare at her until supper was served.

She could hear Philippe and Rene in the parlor talking about the snow storm, both outdoing each other by bragging about how they had spent hours forcing the horses through the snow, and how the brandy was finally relaxing their backs. Poor Gabe, the youngest of the three, was watering the horses in the stables.

Karl sighed and crossed one leg behind the other, which startled Sophia so much that she nearly dropped her knife.

"Staying for dinner, Monsieur?" Citrine asked over her shoulder. "Careful with your answer."

Sophia felt her stomach drop. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Karl's eyes harden.

In the brief time they had courted Sophia was not permitted to speak until he asked her to answer a question or told her to comment on something he had said. Before her parents' deaths she had walked through the grape fields with him and her brother as an escort. Why he asked her to accompany him she didn't know. He never touched her when they were together unless her brother had gone off with one of the naïve grape pickers. When they were alone Karl constantly reached for her breast, groping her roughly until she managed to wriggle away and find one of the workers, which immediately stopped Karl's roving hands. He would glare at her the entire walk back and save his words until the next time they met.

Sophia could still hear him hissing through his teeth, telling her that she could deny him now, but when he had a ring on her finger she would be his to do with as he pleased. Her body, her mind, her every move would belong to him.

Wide-eyed, she turned and watched Karl, her fears confirmed the moment she saw his expression.

He stared at Citrine a moment before raking his hand through his hair. "Eat here? Heavens, no, mademoiselle," he laughed mockingly. "I have my own staff."

Citrine smiled. She turned to Sophia and winked before her attention fell on Monsieur Turro again. "Then if you plan to stay in my kitchen I'll put you to work."

"Quite an Irish tongue, mademoiselle," Karl said smoothly. "A woman with such a mouth would be excused from my household."

Sophia stopped dismembering the goose Citrine had slaughtered for dinner. She rubbed her bloodied hands on her apron and stared at her friend in utter disbelief. No one spoke to Karl in such a tone.

"I'm fortunate to be employed by this household," Citrine said as she opened a drawer and pulled out a chopping knife. "I'd wager we're both fortunate."

Karl stood in silence for a while, and the uncomfortable feeling that had plagued Sophia returned again. She knew if she lifted her eyes that she would find him staring at her again.

"We will leave soon," Karl said suddenly. "I expect you will be dressed properly, Sophia."

He pushed off the wall and turned before Sophia could answer.

"He's a pleasant gentleman," Citrine said under her breath.

"You shouldn't antagonize him," Sophia answered. She swallowed hard and folded her hands beneath the table.

"He shouldn't be in my kitchen," Citrine huffed as she opened the oven, peered inside, and slammed it shut again. "What business does he have here? Monsieur Monteclaire and your brother are in the parlor. Why doesn't he join them?"

Sophia slid her chair away from the table. "He's right. I should wash up and dress."

Citrine glanced at Sophia. "For your piano lessons?"

Sophia felt her stomach drop. If she refused her lessons Monsieur Belmont would never offer to teach her again, but if she denied Karl's demands not only would he be livid but her brother would never forgive her.

She knew her brother was growing more and more concerned each day that passed. He feared no man would marry her now that her eye was failing. If Karl would not have her then Philippe would spend a lifetime looking after her.

"Sophia, you don't look like you're feeling well," Citrine said once Sophia didn't answer. "Do you have a fever?"

"No, I feel…" Sophia shook her head, knowing Citrine was giving her an excuse to cancel her dinner with Karl. Her voice dropped when she spoke next. "If I do not come with him he will remain here."

And she still would not have her lesson. Either way she wasn't going to be able to sit in the parlor beside Monsieur Belmont and watch as his long fingers swept across the ivories. Her heartbeat quickened as she thought of how his shoulder had touched hers while he played.

"I don't believe Monsieur Belmont would allow it," Citrine said with her back turned to Sophia.

It was starting to annoy Sophia that Citrine wouldn't face her when they spoke.

"That is his decision," Sophia said gruffly.

"Yes. Though I have half the mind to request that Monsieur Belmont ask your dearest Monsieur Turro to leave at once," Citrine snapped.

Sophia stood a little straighter. She looked sadly at Citrine and frowned.

"I must wash up."

-o-

He was running out of time. Each minute that passed drew closer to the moment when Karl Turro would take Sophia to dinner in his home.

This man, this complete imbecile, intended to take Sophia from Belmont Manor and entertain her at his estate. There would be a lavish feast, Erik thought to himself. Wine, perhaps, dancing after dinner, even. He tormented himself by picturing Karl sweeping her across a wooden dance floor.

Catching himself before he went into a rage, Erik sat hard at his desk and tapped his fist on the top. "Dinner, not a ball," he said under his breath, though it did nothing to quell his fears.

Dinner would lead to after dinner conversation, more wine, looser tongues, and compromised modesty. If she were alone with him he could gently unlace her gown, recline her on his couch, in his arms, in his bed.

He exhaled through his mouth and scratched his head. He needed to control his feelings. He was merely fighting to keep his student and nothing more. What Karl Turro wanted with Sophia was none of his concern. It couldn't be his concern. Music was his concern.

But he needed to see her. He needed to have someone willing to learn music, someone who came without false pretenses and decided for herself that this was what she wanted.

Erik's stomach growled. His temples throbbed with a hunger-induced headache that was starting to make him feel dizzy. With a groan he rummaged through his desk drawers in search of something edible and found hard candy. He frowned and shut the drawers, his mouth watering for something salty.

"To hell with starving," he muttered to himself as he rose to his feet. This was his house. If he wanted food he would demand it.

It was time to cease hiding in his bed chamber. He had ruled a small empire, a living, breathing, working opera house in the middle of Paris. One man masquerading as a ghost watching over hundreds of set makers, seamstresses, singers, and dancers could walked down the stairs of the house he owned and demand that two women prepare a meal for him before he starved to death.

Erik glanced in the mirror and caught sight of his mask, of the one thing that made him a ghost. His light eyes settled on the curve of his jaw and he tilted his head up. He would command them from afar. If he stood at the top of the stair they could not see his face. Rather than notes he would use his deep voice and his size to intimidate. No one would question a man whose face they couldn't see. As a mystery he would rule again.

He scoffed at his foolishness. They had seen far too much of him for his plan to work. If he had arrived at the Manor first he stood a chance of haunting the premises and creating an air of fear and respect, but already Sophia was too familiar with him. And Citrine? Erik rolled her eyes. Citrine was as unruly as her red hair. She was the living, breathing embodiment of an Irish temper. As much as he didn't want to admit it he felt intimidated by her and knew that if he walked into the kitchen she would either hand him a pairing knife and send him to work or request that he leave her be.

His fears started to return, but he was still too hungry to remain in hiding. It was amazing what an empty belly would do, he thought as he opened his bedroom door and walked into the hall.

Almost immediately he heard Sophia's voice at the bottom of the stairs.

"Mademoiselle," he said, commanding his voice to boom deeper.

Someone sighed. Erik squinted in the darkness and caught sight of a man at her side. It instantly angered him, as he wanted to find her alone. He wasn't quite prepared for an audience.

"Monsieur Belmont?" Sophia questioned.

"Sophia," Philippe groaned. "Dress yourself. I will attend to our master."

Courage returned at once, and Erik allowed his arms to relax at his sides as he paced back and forth. He felt a little curl of arrogance return, the same feelings he had mustered when he approached the new managers of the Opera Populaire and presented _Don Juan Triumphant_.

"I am speaking to Sophia, Monsieur Dupree. Return to the parlor at once."

"Monsieur—"

"Return to the parlor at once," Erik commanded, pausing at the top of the stairs with his toes at the very edge.

Philippe hesitated. He whispered something to Sophia before storming down the hall and muttering curses at his employer.

"Mademoiselle," Erik continued once he was certain that she was alone. His breathing had increased, composure fading.

He could see her though she couldn't see him. He watched her a moment as she stood with her fist wrapped around her necklace and a bewildered expression on her face. He noticed that her lips looked a little fuller when they were parted. Her face looked more oval than round when her hair was down. And her dress? There were no words to describe how she looked in her burgundy dress.

"Sophia," he whispered before he realized his voice was abandoning him.

"May I help you?" she asked, her voice low as well. She stepped forward until she was standing on the bottom stair.

His throat had become dry the moment he said her name. Erik swallowed hard, cleared his voice, and shook his head. He turned away from the stairs and faced his door again, uncertain of what he should do. There was no trap door to escape down, no hidden entrance where he could disappear. If he left now it had to be through the bedroom door, and that was not the way he wanted to leave.

Erik's head felt lighter than before, though he knew it wasn't from hunger. She was doing something to him again, something strange and terrible and exactly what he wanted to feel.

"Erik, are you there?" she asked, her voice stronger, more desperate than before. She was looking for him.

She was hoping he was still there.

"Yes," he answered. He attempted to summon his voice again and found it at last, though it came out weaker than he intended. "I am here."

The stairs creaked and he counted her steps. She had moved up three stairs. If he turned he could see her face.

And she could see his.

"I have obligations," she said softly.

"Is dinner finished?" he asked.

"No, Monsieur."

Slowly he turned and met her eye. He gripped his mind around the last shred of assertiveness he could find.

"Your obligations are to my household," he said gruffly. "Tell Citrine to bring something into the parlor before dinner. Bread and cheese, salted meats, and a carafe of wine as well."

"Monsieur, I—"

"The storm has passed. Monsieur Turro may return home now that your brother has returned. Is that understood?"

"Yes, but—"

"Do you question me, girl?" he boomed, taking one step toward her.

"No, Monsieur," Sophia answered quickly. "It's just that…"

"Speak," he ordered.

"Would you prefer something lighter before dinner?" she blurted out. "Soup, perhaps?"

A grim smile caught hold of his lips as he met her eye. "Not around my piano," he said before he turned and disappeared into his room again.


	21. A Phantom's Eyes

Paladin21

Once Erik returned to his room his heart was pounding. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket, pulled his mask from his face, and wiped his forehead.

The moment had left him sweating and shaking but relieved. He had done it. He had requested her company and demanded that Monsieur Karl Turro leave his Manor at once, and no one had questioned him. He had acted as the master and he would be obeyed. Once again he had some semblance in his life, slight as it seemed.

Now all he needed was to have Monsieur Monteclare and Monsieur Dupree leave the parlor.

Satisfied with how everything had transpired thus far, Erik sighed and replaced his mask. He waited until his heart rate slowed before he looked to the mirror again.

Below the neck he was an ordinary man, taller than average, broad-shouldered, with a lean waist and long legs. He was not an extraordinary specimen, and he knew there were men far more physically imposing than he, but he could look in the mirror and be satisfied with his appearance.

Until he met his own gaze.

Over the years Erik had covered all the mirrors in his lakeside home so that he would not meet his own accusing eye. He refused to look at himself unless his mask and hairpiece were in place, but even then he was rarely comfortable. The mask only hid his flesh and the hairpiece only covered his uneven hairline.

He could live with looking at the deformity. Erik began to realize that it wasn't the uneven flesh that made him grimace. When he remained within his apartments he removed his mask and allowed his skin to breathe, as the leather covering made him sweat. It rubbed against his cheekbone, itched and irritated his flesh. If someone called he kept a mask by the cellar door. He mocked his own solitude by being prepared for visitors that would never come.

However, no mask hid his eyes.

Albino eyes, the dancers whispered, glowing, yellow, devil eyes peering in the darkness, searching each shadow for an unsuspecting child to whisk away. At one time the rumors amused Erik, but after years of hearing the same thing he tired of the stories and wanted to be left alone.

He received enough ridicule from himself each time he drew back the curtains and examined his eyes to be certain that they were still green gray rather than yellow. Sometimes he sighed in relief that he wasn't what they said, but many more times he was dissatisfied when he wasn't the legendary creature that frightened the world away. It would have been easier to be a heartless, unfeeling monster. Experiencing nothing at all would have been preferred to heartache and longing, to seeing but never having.

It would have been better than what he felt for Christine.

Erik wanted to see those eyes again, those eyes he was certain had turned bright yellow.

Those eyes that clung to a lifetime of loathing. Those eyes that hated the world that had feared him and banished him to a life of solitude. Those eyes that stared through the mirror at a world that rejected him.

He shook his head and took a deep breath. That was what he didn't want to see in the mirror. Not now, not ever. That was what he didn't want Sophia to see when she looked at him.

Erik closed his eyes and sighed, the initial rush of adrenaline he had felt fading fast as self-doubt plagued him once again.

If she could see past the right side of his face, if she could avoid looking him in the eye…

"I'd be a ghost again," he whispered morosely. He was tired of being a ghost. Though it hadn't gone well Erik knew that dinner with Citrine and Sophia could have been much different. In time, he thought, he could become more comfortable in their presences. If he listened to them more carefully when they were in the kitchen or working upstairs perhaps he could add to the conversation, become part of the company at the dinner table. Imitation, he knew, he was good at imitation. If he could feign being a gentleman then perhaps he could join them and they would not know what he was.

They would not see the fear behind the mask, within those eyes. Fear of being left behind a moment longer.

Erik's body suddenly felt heavier. For someone who could instill terror in others he was deeply afraid of being alone until death. Solitude had never been voluntary. It had been expected. But now he wanted his own expectations.

"I'm going to fail," he whispered, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm too old to attempt, too unlearned in the world."

He made himself increasingly miserable and his headache grew stronger.

A knock at his bedroom door startled him out of his self-deprecation. He cleared his throat and stood straighter, hoping it was a knock alerting him to his dinner.

"Monsieur Belmont, a word if you would be so kind," Philippe Dupree said.

Judging by Philippe's tone he was not pleased, but he was making every attempt to control his voice.

"Clear the parlor," Erik replied. "Then we may speak."

"There is no one in the parlor, Monsieur. Rene Monteclare is feeding the horses."

Erik studied the door, tongue rolling along the inside of his cheek. "And what are you doing, Monsieur Dupree?"

There was no immediate answer. For a moment Erik suspected Philippe had left, but then he heard breathing and knew his butler was still present and growing more agitated with each passing second.

"Tonight is very important for my sister," Philippe said, keeping his voice low and even. "Her duties in your home end at suppertime. Once the table is cleared and the dishes clean she returns to being nothing more than my sister."

Erik stood rigid, his nostrils flared as his gaze bore a hole through the door.

"There will be no lessons tonight, Monsieur, and I forbid you to teach her again. She has obligations following dinner, and I will see that she does as is needed. Please understand that I apologize, Monsieur Belmont. I had hoped we could conduct ourselves like reasonable gentleman, but since you do not wish to be seen this will have to be suitable. Good night, sir."

"Monsieur Dupree," Erik growled, his patience for the man waning. "From now on Sophia will take her lessons before supper. Inform Citrine that starting tonight I will take my dinner two hours later than normal."

"Monsieur," Philippe said, biting off his employer's title.

"Thank you, Monsieur Dupree. Good night, sir."

Erik waited, daring Philippe to say another word, but his butler went silent. The last thing Erik heard was Philippe stomping down the stairs, muttering something about resigning from his position in the morning.

So be it, Erik thought, and with that he decided to see if Monsieur Turro had his carriage prepared to return home. Alone.

-o-

Citrine placed the goose innards into a shallow bowl and tucked her cloak around her body. She glanced into the hall to make certain that no one was entering the kitchen and saw no one. Philippe slammed the front door and trudged into the snow, to which Citrine rolled her eyes.

With the rest of the house still she opened the back door and padded into the snow, braving a gust of wind and whistling twice as she squinted in the bright light.

For weeks she had seen a dog roaming the property. It was tall and shaggy but terribly thin. As far as she knew no one else had seen it, so she decided to give it scraps so that it wouldn't starve. The last thing she wanted was to find a frozen dog dead by the front porch.

The blood from the goose had been lapped up in the snow so she knew the animal couldn't be far. She whistled again and held her breath as she waited.

Soon enough something dark wriggled from beneath the smoke house and lumbered toward her with its pink tongue lolling from its maw.

"Still with us, I see," she said as he bounded up and sniffed around, his tail and rear wiggling with the scent of food.

"Here, take your scraps and disappear," she said as she slipped the food into his mouth. He licked her hand, which made her giggle before she turned away. "This all must stop soon, Dublin," she said, referring to the hound by his secret name. "If the master sees you there's no telling what he would do. Now go. Find yourself a new home, you hear, laddy?"

The dog turned and trotted away, his bony rear still wagging as he returned to his hole beneath the smoke house.

Citrine sighed and gathered up her cloak and skirts before returning inside, completely unaware of the eyes watching her from the second floor and felt a kinship to the unwanted animal slinking into a hole.


	22. Sophia's Wellbeing

As always…thanks for your support and feedback! It is much appreciated! If you have a chance come check me out on the world wide web at Gabrina dot com. I have cyber chocolate chip cookies!

Paladin22

Philippe was livid by the time he reached the home he shared with Sophia. His ears burned, his face flushed as he paced through the kitchen.

"Only a complete coward would hide behind his bedroom door," he muttered to himself as he struggled out of his overcoat and threw it over a kitchen chair.

No one spoke to him in that manner. He was a Dupree! He was a fifth generation winemaker. Ever since he was thirteen he had been working in the office alongside his father, filling orders and overseeing production.

He was trusted to do his job. He was good at his job. Everyone who worked with his father knew Philippe and respected him.

But the vineyard no longer belonged to his family. It was in the Dupree Family, yes, but it was in his uncles' possession and had been since his mother and father died.

Being left with nothing galled Philippe. The vineyard estate, with its vast orchards of apples, apricots, plums, and grapes made for a fairytale playground where he and Sophia lost themselves all afternoon. Two creeks had turned brother and sister into fish during the summer, while winters saw them sliding across the ice or taking boards onto the gentle snow-covered slopes in the barren orchards.

Over the summer their lives had changed.

His two uncles wouldn't permit him to work in the vineyard, as they had older sons whom they thought were more capable. Unless Philippe agreed to take Sophia with him, their uncles were prepared to marry her off to a man three times her age, which Philippe had not allowed. With no home or business, Philippe and Sophia were left to fend for themselves.

As much as he hated to admit it, Philippe was growing weary of caring for Sophia. He didn't want anything to happen to her, but with her eyesight failing in one eye and the other still uncertain, he wanted her married. It was the only way he could think of to guarantee her future. If she waited a few more months no man would ever accept her. The truth she had to accept was that if she were completely blind she wouldn't be able to care for their children or household.

Philippe sighed in disgust. Karl had promised to care for Sophia, but Philippe was no fool. He knew men like Karl. Hell, he _was_ a man like Karl. There was little doubt in Philippe's mind that Karl would provide for her financially, but there was little chance they would share a marriage bed for more than the first few months. Karl would seek his affection elsewhere, and that would leave Sophia to tend to the house as best she could. If she were to conceive a child it would most likely be tended to by a nanny. She would, perhaps, be kept at a private residence with her own wait staff.

It would be a lonely life, but her finances would be in order and their good name saved. That was all he could ask. Once she grew used to her lot in life, Philippe suspected she would be quite content. She would not be the only woman in the world whose husband sought pleasure in other women.

And perhaps, following the wedding, Karl would do as he promised and purchase Dupree Vineyards. The family business would once again belong to the family, which would give Sophia more liberty and return Philippe's social status. They would no longer be servants.

But now this man, this cowardly stranger, was attempting to ruin Philippe's plans for Sophia. The more he flattered her and placed absurd ideas into her head the more time she would waste before becoming Karl's wife. Why couldn't she see that?

God forbid this man would talk her into his bed. Since he spent the majority of his time hiding there was no telling what his true intentions were. Sophia was so impressionable that Philippe feared she had already fallen prey to this man.

With his hand balled in a fist, Philippe considered punching the tabletop but stopped himself. He saw Sophia standing in the doorway, her hair down and framing her face. She looked pretty. Too pretty.

"Remove that dress. Put your work frock on, pull your hair back, and for God's sake, Sophia, wash that rouge from your cheeks."

"I'm not wearing—"

"Do what I say!" Philippe screamed.

Sophia jumped back, her hands working through her hair to twist her black locks into a bun. "Philippe—"

Losing his self-control, Philippe grabbed Sophia by the shoulders and shook her hard. "You go, you attend your futile lessons, and you return here at once. Is that understood? You will dine with Karl Turro tonight! You will not ruin this!" he said through his teeth. He released her and swung his arm back though he stopped before he struck her. "Go."

She nodded as she turned and headed down the hall where she disappeared into her room.

Philippe ignored her sobs as he snatched his jacket and returned to his own room across from Sophia's. This was for the best. When she was taken care of financially she would thank him. If he were not a decent man he would have doomed her to the fate their uncles had in store for her. He would have had her married to a beady-eyed, white-haired man with grandchildren her age. He would have handed her to a man known to favor girls even younger than Sophia. He wouldn't have given thought to a more suitable match, a man who in time could possibly train himself to care for her. That man was Karl Turro.

"Oh, hell," Philippe said to himself as he leaned against the wall, unable to block out Sophia's sobs.

Love was out of the question, and for that Philippe closed his eyes and sighed.

-o-

Citrine delivered Monsieur Belmont's food to the parlor. He scared her half to death, as she hadn't expected him to be in the parlor before his food arrived.

"How is it that one man is so silent?" she said under her breath when he merely glanced over his left shoulder and nodded.

He was sitting at the piano, shuffling through sheets of music. He didn't say a word, and although Citrine didn't expect her employer to acknowledge her, there was something odd about the way he looked at her but resumed his task.

Since Citrine had arrived at Belmont Manor she had been attempting to figure him out. She couldn't decide if he was shy or too eccentric to concern himself with the outside world.

Given that he was a composer Citrine suspected he was a pretentious artist more concerned about his craft than with the public. But the mask covering the right side of his face piqued her curiosity.

The other women who worked in the Manor—and who were no longer employed there—had debriefed Citrine in the cellar. Citrine could still see the glint of horror and excitement in their eyes as they clutched her arms and whispered, "He wears a mask!"

It was debated, sometimes quite heatedly, as to whether he wore it to cover some type of scar or to set himself apart from the rest. A ploy, Citrine was told, merely for publicity. Artists were always doing something absurd.

One older woman, whom Citrine had replaced, said that she had read in the paper that the right side of his face was unhealed flesh.

"It was some sort of terrible illness," the woman had confided in Citrine.

Citrine had nodded, attempting to ignore the woman as she continued her work.

"I've heard it's simply ghastly. If you get close enough…he smells like death."

Citrine had merely smiled, but Sophia had been quite upset. In a huff she took a tray of tea and biscuits upstairs for the master of the house.

"Gossiping cows," Sophia had muttered as she left the kitchen.

From everything Citrine had seen Monsieur Belmont wasn't unpleasant; he just kept to himself. Out of everyone employed at the Manor the only person he saw frequently was Sophia.

Citrine left his food on a small table in the opposite corner and wiped her hands on her apron. "Will you take dinner here or in the dining room this evening, Monsieur Belmont?"

"My room," he answered in his rich, deep tone.

"Very well, Monsieur," Citrine replied.

She lingered, waiting for him to speak again. It didn't much matter what he said. For all she cared he could have told her to leave and never return. She merely wanted to hear his voice again and find another elusive piece of the enigmatic puzzle. Dinner the previous night had told her nothing, as he had kept to himself throughout most of the meal.

Erik glanced over his shoulder again and looked her up and down. "That is all."

"Of course," Citrine said pleasantly. She smiled even though he wasn't looking at her. "I haven't yet made dessert, Monsieur. Would you care for something in particular? I have several jars of pears and red raspberries for tarts, or I could make something with chocolate. Monsieur Monte—"

"Make whatever you wish," he replied. He paused and twisted a little more until he looked her in the eye.

From where she stood Citrine could only see the left half of his face. Her curiosity was piqued, and the longer she stared at him the harder it became to ignore his appearance. Why a man with such a flawless face would choose to hide part of it was beyond Citrine's imagination. He had a strong jaw, a dimpled chin, and a focused gaze that bore straight through her. He was intimidating in build, commanding in voice, and unmistakable in presence. For such a silent man he could not be ignored—even though his preference seemed to be to enter and leave a room unnoticed. No wonder Sophia talked about him when they were alone together in the kitchen, Citrine thought.

"When you send dinner up," he said, his voice like thunder rolling through the room. "I would prefer extra salt to sugar."

"I don't add enough salt?" Citrine asked, suddenly insulted by his request.

"Perhaps for others," he replied and left it at that.


	23. Citrine's Dress

_This chapter is to make Andersm feel better!_

Paladin23

Sophia knelt in the snow and patted her burning cheeks with her bare hands, using the melting snow on her fingertips to cool her flesh.

Her tears had finally ended, but she knew by the way she felt that her skin was blotchy and her eyes red. Even if Monsieur Belmont never looked at her directly she couldn't possibly enter the parlor after she had spent half an hour crying.

She continued to hyperventilate as she gazed at the windows on the upper floor. Her body began to tremble from the cold and she forced herself to climb to her feet. She could barely see her skirts through her returning tears.

Sophia knew if she waited much longer her employer would assume she wasn't interested in her lessons. She wiped her face one last time before stomping through the back door.

"Sophia?" Citrine questioned the moment Sophia closed the door behind her.

"I'm fine," she whimpered.

"Yes, obviously," Citrine said as she used the kitchen towel that was tucked into her apron to dab at Sophia's eyes. "What's wrong? Did you fall? You have snow all over you. Goodness, Mademoiselle, you must be freezing."

"I'll be fine," she said, but her chattering teeth betrayed her.

Citrine cocked her head to the side. "You'll catch a fever. Come, I have a dress that must be dry by now. It's upstairs by the fire in the bedroom at the end of the hall. Change or you'll freeze to death."

Sophia shook her head. "I can't catch a fever and freeze to death," she muttered.

Citrine chuckled to herself as she smoothed Sophia's hair back. "No, I suppose not, but there's no use in tempting fate now, is there? Change clothes."

"I can't, Citrine, I'm already late. If I—"

"Go. Monsieur Belmont hasn't come down to the parlor just yet. You may even pass him in the hall."

Sophia knew there would be no arguing with Citrine. She nodded, made one last attempt to hold back her emotions, and headed out of the kitchen.

Her tears stopped once she reached the empty bedroom. Citrine had made a habit out of keeping her spare clothes for work inside the vacant room in case she spilled something on her clothes while cooking. She saw no sense in tromping across the grounds to the small home behind the quarters Sophia and Philippe shared.

"Do you see it?" Citrine called up.

"Y—yes," she answered as she stared at the dress. "But it's not for—"

"You don't like it? I sewed it myself when I was still back home in Ireland."

Sophia couldn't help but smile at the dark blue velvet dress embellished with gold around the neckline and sleeves. After her parents died Sophia had been forced to sell most of her fine clothing. She still remembered the hardened expression on her brother's face as their family home was emptied and the furniture sold by their two uncles who only wanted the profits from their home and vineyard.

"I thought it was a work frock," she said over her shoulder.

"No, I didn't say that."

"Citrine, I can't—"

"Try it on," Citrine replied before she returned to the kitchen.

-o-

The house was quiet when Erik walked out of his room and quietly made his way down the stairs. Monsieur Monteclaire had most likely returned to the stable. The only person Erik wondered about was Karl Turro, but since he hadn't seen him lurking about the house he assumed his unwanted guest had finally left.

After peeking into the kitchen and finding Citrine muttering to herself as she salted their dinner, Erik walked into the parlor and rubbed his gloved hands together. He set his sheet music on the piano bench and straightened the two chairs in the corner. Once the furniture was in order he took a deep breath and scanned the empty room again. Since he was a few minutes early he took the time to add more wood to the hearth. He didn't find it particularly cold, but he wanted to make it comfortable for his student. Any good teacher would provide basic comforts for his student, he reasoned with himself.

When standing before the fire made him perspire he turned away, thinking it would be best to choose a piece of music for her to practice.

The doors flew open before he had a chance to return to the piano.

"I apologize for being late, Monsieur, my dress was wet, I needed to change clothes and—" Sophia froze, her hands atop her head. A hairpin escaped her fingers and landed without a sound on the rug.

Erik froze the moment she entered, his lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out. He was staring at the gold embellishments along her neckline.

Sophia glanced down to see what he was looking at, which drew his eyes away from her breasts. He turned away and stared at the wall, certain she had noticed him gaping.

"This dress isn't mine," she said quickly. "It's Citrine's."

Erik nodded. He stole another glance before he cleared his throat. Her skin was flawless, white as fresh milk. Her eyes, which he had never noticed before, looked emerald green. That was only her face. He didn't dare look any further than her long, perfect and completely exposed neck.

"She gave it to you?" he asked for the sake of saying something, anything at all. The room seemed much warmer than it had just moments before.

"Yes…just for today." Erik saw her wiggling. "It's…I don't know if I can play properly. The sleeves, the length, I'm terribly uncomfortable—"

"Would you rather take it off?" he asked without thinking. He stared at her a moment as he thought over his words. "I…well, no…that's…oh, hell, I meant would you rather change into something else?"

Sophia was bright red when he dared to look at her again. He couldn't help but notice that her coloring had changed from alabaster to crimson not only on her face but her neck and chest as well.

"I would have to return home, and then I have…engagements, Monsieur."

Erik nodded again. If she returned to her home her brother would send her straight to Monsieur Turro's house. As they stood in silence Erik became increasingly aware that the last thing he wanted was for Sophia to have dinner with Karl Turro.

"Then you will sit and listen to me play?" he asked, though his words came out as more of a statement than a question.

"Y-yes," she agreed meekly.

She sat on the right side of the bench as she had before and folded her hands as she waited for him to accompany her.

"There are several pieces of music, not all of them original, if you'd prefer to hear something you may already know I would…" his voice trailed away as he stared at her back.

The dress wasn't completely laced. She had missed the first two grommets, which left the dress loose on top. That must have been what made it uncomfortable.

"I beg your pardon?" Sophia asked.

Her question startled him. He had completely lost his train of thought while staring at her bodice. "Excuse me?"

"You said if I preferred to hear something I already knew and then you stopped."

"I…was saying…" Erik forced himself to stop and take a breath. He turned his head away and searched for something that would help him regain his composure, as staring at her back wasn't helping. He had to tell her what was wrong. It was what a gentleman would do.

"Yes, Monsieur?" Sophia prompted.

"Mademoiselle, your dress."

"It's Citrine's dress," she said defensively.

"Yes, it's not laced correctly."

Sophia shot up from the piano bench and nearly backed herself into the wall as she struggled to hold the front of her dress with one hand while searching for the laces with the other.

Erik put both of his hands out. "I saw nothing," he blurted out, attempting not to frighten her. "It's…it's not inappropriate. It's just…the first two…"

"I can feel it," Sophia said, her voice trembling. "I didn't see it in the mirror."

Their eyes met and Erik recognized the expression on her face. She was about to break down in tears, most likely from embarrassment.

"Turn around," Erik said firmly.

Sophia's mouth slipped open in protest but she said nothing. She looked Erik in the eye, questioning his intentions. He said nothing in return, settling for a single nod to tell her that he wouldn't harm her.

The last thing he expected was for her to comply. He was her employer, a man who wore a mask and spoke to no one. She had no reason to trust him or believe that he wouldn't force her to do something against her will.

Sophia's mouth twitched. She glanced at his black leather gloves then back at his face. With a half smile she nodded back and turned, holding loose tresses of dark hair away from her neck.

Erik inhaled again and wondered if she could hear him desperately swallowing lung's full of air. He approached her slowly and stood behind her for a moment, uncertain of whether or not he should untie the lacing and thread it through the grommets. His only other choice was to send her to Citrine, which was the safest decision.

"I may need to…"

"Untie the bow," Sophia whispered. "And re-lace it."

"Yes," Erik said lowly. "May I, Mademoiselle?"

She hesitated for only a heartbeat before she nodded.

-o-

Sophia was certain that at any moment she would break into a thousand pieces. She could feel Erik breathing on the back of her neck and wondered what made him so nervous. He couldn't possibly be as uncomfortable as she in that moment.

In the back of her mind she knew she should excuse herself from the room and ask Citrine to assist her. That was the proper thing to do. Decent young women did not ask their male employers to lace their dresses. It was scandalous, she knew. Everything about this encounter was completely forbidden.

But still she didn't resist.

His fingertips touched her just below the neck and she shivered as the cool leather touched her flesh.

"I apologize," he said, his voice barely audible.

"Your gloves are quite cold," she replied.

Sophia's eyes fluttered closed as she felt the laces come undone. Erik gave a tug, tightening the back of the dress, which made her exhale at the sudden force.

"One moment, Mademoiselle," Erik said quietly.

Her eyes popped open as she glanced over her shoulder and saw him removing his gloves with his teeth.

Their eyes met again and he forced a weak, nervous smile. "Cumbersome," he said before clearing his throat. "With haste, Mademoiselle."

She turned again, and he quickly finished lacing and re-tying her dress, barely touching her in the process. Rather than relief she felt disappointment.

"There," he said as he took a small step back.

Sophia turned to face him. "Thank you, Monsieur," she said timidly as she stared at the floor.

"Erik," he stated. "I prefer Erik."

She nodded. "Of course…Erik," she said, daring to glance up.

Once she looked him in the eye she couldn't tear her gaze away. His expression was unreadable, which only furthered her intrigue.

"Shall we start?" she asked before the silence grew uncomfortable.

"Yes, of course," he said. He stood for a moment with his hands at his side before suddenly offering his arm. His gesture startled Sophia, but she took his arm and walked with him to the piano, where he waited for her to sit.

Erik sat beside her and began shuffling through the sheet music he had brought into the parlor.

"Now, I have two compositions from Mozart," he started to explain before he looked at her again.

Sophia leaned forward slightly and looked at the two papers he held in either hand. "Which do you prefer?" she asked.

"I will play whichever you wish to hear," he said.

Their arms touched as Sophia reached out and took hold of the sheet in his left hand. Almost instantly she felt him tense as though no one had ever sat so close to him before.

"This one," she said, glancing at him.

"This one," he echoed.

Sophia could feel him staring at her. She couldn't stop herself from looking into his eyes again.

There was something remarkable in his gaze, something passionate and strong yet so completely raw and searching. As callous and fearsome as he had first appeared there was also insecurity.

"Monsieur?" Sophia questioned.

He shook his head slightly, his lips parting as though he would challenge her choice.

"Erik," she breathed.

He nodded slowly, and the last thing Sophia saw was his eyes slowly close as she leaned into him.


	24. Little Needed, Much Denied

In the last chapter Sophia and Erik were face to face alone in the parlor. Thanks so much for your feedback!

Paladin24

Sophia froze the moment she felt Erik's breath on her face. The warm rush of air was followed closely by the soft sensation of his lips barely touching hers. She had never experienced anything quite like it, a mixture of utter torture and rushing pleasure.

They both paused, suspended in a moment of uncertainty, neither one certain of what to do next.

Sophia's head swam with a thousand jumbled thoughts, each battling between pulling back and leaning farther forward. With every beat of her heart she could see flashes of him in her mind starting from the day he had appeared, to the time he chopped wood for her, to when he had walked into the parlor just moments before.

Only then did Sophia realize how often she thought of him.

Her hands clenched the piano bench as she too closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his, feeling the warmth of his lips and the cool surface of his mask touch her cheek.

Her belly immediately filled with a million butterflies all swirling and fluttering within her, setting her nerves on fire and her mind into the clouds. She felt claimed, completely possessed by his intimate gesture. At the same time she had never felt more in control.

This was what she had wanted, though she hadn't realized it before. She surrendered to her own needs while conquering something much larger.

Sophia heard Erik exhale sharply as his body tensed and the sheets of music he held fell from his grasp. He shifted slightly and placed his hand on her upper arm, gently holding her in place as he pulled back and opened his eyes.

Sophia sat as still as a statue, feeling her cheeks flush as he searched her face. She desperately wanted him to say something or to smile, but he merely stared at her, his expression unreadable. His fingers gripped her arm briefly before the realization of what had transpired entered his gaze and he released her.

He turned away as he cleared his throat and tugged at his cravat, giving her no indication of whether or not he had intended to kiss her. She waited for him to turn again, her throat so dry she couldn't utter a sound.

"I'm afraid that I've misplaced the composition you selected," Erik said with his head still turned away. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye before he stared at the sheet music scattered along the floor.

He regretted it, Sophia thought as she nodded and frowned. It was all a mistake in his eyes. She was a servant and would never be anything more.

"Another time," she whispered, suddenly mortified about the situation.

Sophia wanted to run from the room but she couldn't move. He paralyzed her again with another glance that threatened her belly with more butterflies. She wondered if he knew how much authority he had in merely his eyes, how captivating he was when his gaze locked with hers.

He made her forget that there was a room and a piano. She could only see him staring back at her, commanding her to look into his eyes and pleading for her to draw her gaze away.

"I'll…I'll find it," he said suddenly.

His words startled Sophia and she sat back, nearly pitching from the bench.

Erik saw her tilt backward, so he grabbed her by both arms to steady her, holding her far too tightly for much too long. Their eyes met again and Sophia saw the same look that had led to their kiss.

"Mademoiselle," he uttered, his thumbs gently caressing her arms.

"I apologize," Sophia whispered as she looked away, her face so flushed that she thought her skin would catch fire. "I'm so…clumsy…sometimes."

"Yes," he breathed, his tone even and serious. "You are quite clumsy."

His words made her laugh unexpectedly, and she covered her mouth with both of her hands and turned away to regain her composure.

His expression immediately changed, his mouth twitching with annoyance. "I beg your pardon?" he said, his voice as hard as his eyes.

Sophia shook her head. "That was quite rude of you to call me clumsy," she chuckled.

"There is no need for you to laugh at such nonsense, especially when I was attempting to agree with you," he said defensively.

Her good senses all but vanished, suddenly everything amused Sophia. "Don't agree with me," she said as she fanned her face with both of her hands before leaning over and gathering the fallen sheet music.

Erik was silent a moment. He took the papers from her hands and stared at them. "What do you want, Mademoiselle?" he asked rather boldly. "Tell me now, this very moment."

Sophia studied him for a moment. She had never known anyone who struggled so greatly inside. She knew by the way the lines were set in his face that he was suddenly very troubled by the possibilities of her reply.

"I don't want anything," she said quietly.

His eyes shot up and he searched her face again. A long moment passed before he harnessed his emotions and forced a curt nod.

"Mademoiselle—"

"What do you want, Monsieur?" she questioned.

Erik rose from the piano bench and tossed the sheet music atop the piano. "Nothing," he replied gruffly.

He started to leave, but Sophia rose with him.

"Neither of us," she said before he reached the door, "is a good liar."

He refused to turn and face her. "Explain yourself."

Sophia stiffened at his demands. She marched toward the door, pulled it open, and whipped around to face him. "No," she said defiantly, and with that she disappeared.

-o-

The woman was mad, Erik thought to himself as he locked the parlor door and considered kicking it. There was no other explanation for how she could transform from a doe-eyed innocent to a giggling child and then to a red-eyed monster storming from the room.

"I shall inform her that her duties here are finished," Erik muttered to himself as he pulled his gloves on and gritted his teeth.

She was an insolent whelp trying his patience—and he had absolutely none to spare her.

With an exasperated sigh he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. She was still there in taste and smell, which only furthered his aggravation. That woman, that brazen, irritating woman was nothing more than a mistake. He regretted the first day he came to this damned Manor. He hated how cramped his room was, how the sunlight tore through the room each morning, and how those flippant girls were always in the kitchen whispering and giggling.

Erik unlocked the parlor door and stormed down the hall. He slammed his bedroom door shut, pulled his cloak from the wardrobe and returned to the lower half of his home. Citrine watched him in wide-eyed silence as he disappeared through the front door.

The wind stung his eyes the moment he exited his home. Erik brought his hand to his face and covered his nose and mouth to keep the harsh wind from hitting his face.

Damning the cold he continued to trudge through the snow, ignoring the wind and sleet pelting him. He needed time alone, and the only place he would find solace was in the barren orchards. There he could walk aimlessly through the snow and kick trees or scream if it suited him, and with the way his anger was boiling he wanted to do something.

"To hell with this place and that girl," he muttered to himself as he heard horses neighing. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a carriage pull into the drive.

It was Turro, he realized. Karl Turro had come to retrieve Sophia for their dinner.

"Best of luck, Monsieur," he growled as he stalked toward the fence surrounding the orchard. The wind caught hold of his hood and ripped it away from his face, furthering his aggravation. He hadn't been outside for more than a few minutes, but his muscles already ached from the chill. Each moment that passed guaranteed him a day spent battling a fever.

He didn't care. Freezing to death seemed like more of a blessing than facing Sophia ever again. He didn't want to see Citrine either, as she had given Sophia that damned dress. Perhaps Karl would compliment her on her garb as he entertained Sophia with nonsense over dinner.

"Enjoy your dinner, your wine, and your _pleasant_ company."

Erik kicked the gate open and stormed into the orchard. He could still hear voices in the distance and his pace slowed. With his hands balled into fists he considered punching the nearest tree, but he couldn't. His rage faded as quickly as it had taken hold of him.

With his hair damp and face stinging from the cold he stopped and released a disheartened sigh.

Erik searched the virgin snow, his eyes fixed on his lone footprints as he heard Karl and Philippe still shouting near his home. They were telling Sophia to make haste.

He didn't bother to raise his eyes at the sound of their voices. He was too preoccupied by the sharp pain he felt in his chest as he stared at his footsteps marring the perfect dusting of snow.

The world felt colder than it ever had before, the single set of footprints serving as an exclamation point to his solitude.

No one would walk beside him for as long as he lived. This evening was proof of that, though Erik couldn't help but think that he needed no further indication of his misery. His first false hope had been Christine, and now Sophia had become his second and last mistake.

In shame he slunk through the woods, still tasting Sophia, still remembering how soft her lips had felt against his. He wanted to hold her again the way he had in the parlor, to feel how his hands fit perfectly along her upper arms, to run his fingers along her back.

No, he told himself, he didn't need even that much. He would be content sitting beside her. How little he needed, how much he was denied.

Everything about her had seemed perfect. Why then, had he insisted on pushing her away?

"I'm a coward," he muttered as he rounded a tree. "A miserable, lonely, loathsome coward."

He stepped on something soft and lost his footing. Falling to his hands and knees, Erik swore under his breath at his foolishness. He grumbled to himself and glanced over his shoulder to see what had caused him to trip. Already his scraped hands and bruised shins were beginning to throb and he cursed himself.

There in the darkness something small and dark lay beneath the tree. Squinting, Erik reached out and touched the object.

It was soft and still warm, which startled him. He swallowed and leaned forward, holding his breath as he realized what he was staring at.

A body.


	25. The Brink of Death

A/N Following a kiss and an argument, Erik left the Manor and headed toward the orchard where he found something in the snow. Thanks again for reviewing! It's interesting to hear what everyone thinks. I appreciate it and so does Monsieur Belmont.

Paladin25

A low, inhuman groan rumbled from the crumpled mass lying before Erik, signaling that it was still alive. The sound startled him, and despite thinking better of it he still ran his bare hand over the object, feeling soft fur rise and fall beneath his hand. Judging by the long legs and slim body it could have been a fox curled up in a ball. Though he didn't know much about animals, he assumed that anything exposed to the elements must have been sick or injured, especially a fox. Impossible to catch, they would fight to the death or run for cover. Foxes were rarely seen. Perhaps it was a wolf, as its size suggested.

Erik started to remove his other glove but stopped, thinking that the leather would at least protect him if the feral beast lashed out. He had seen the stagehands torture and kill cats before and recalled how, even when the animal was skinned alive, they could bite and scratch until their hearts gave out.

The animal before him whined as it moved, and Erik saw its head rise from the rest of its body. Glassy eyes blinked at him once before closing again, and as the head fell again to the ground, its thin tail gave a pathetic wag.

A dog.

"Citrine's dog," Erik whispered as he threw both gloves beside him in the snow.

If it were the same dog he had seen Citrine feeding it was tame, not a wild fox or wolf as he had first thought. Still, he had no idea what had happened to the animal or why it had wandered so far.

Wiping his hand over his face, Erik sighed. He stared at the body quickly becoming covered with the falling snow and considered his options.

The most logical was to leave it and return home. By the looks of it there was little chance it would survive, and the last thing Erik wanted to do was drag home a half-dead animal. He preferred having it die unseen rather than watching it slowly fade. At least if the dog were found frozen Citrine wouldn't know it had died until there was nothing to be done.

Still, Erik lingered a moment longer. The breathing seemed to slow, but as if it knew what was about to happen, the dog whined again, inching closer to Erik's knees. He rested his hand along the ribs and felt the dog's side rise and fall. It exhaled, inching closer to death with each breath.

The longer he remained the less he desired to leave the beast. Erik closed his eyes and told himself that nothing could be done. There were no tracks in the snow, so there was no way to tell how long the animal had been wandering about. It must have exhausted itself and fallen. This was nature's way.

With his mind made up, he rose to his feet and considered looking for an ax or something blunt to crack the skull and put the animal out of its misery. The easiest thing would have been to strangle it or break its neck, but he didn't want to touch it with his bare hands.

He searched a few moments, finding nothing with which to kill the dog. With nothing left to be done, he decided to leave it.

Halfway over the fence Erik stopped himself. He was shivering, his shoes soaked and his legs numb from kneeling in the snow. He wanted to return home, add more wood to the fire and strip out of his wet clothes. Dinner would be ready. He could sit in his room, work on his music, and take his supper as he was accustomed to.

Erik stepped over the fence again and grumbled to himself. This damned dog would be on his mind throughout the night. Already he couldn't shake the image of Citrine giving the hound scraps earlier in the day, and though he knew he shouldn't feel guilty, Erik couldn't stop the regret he already felt mounting.

He would lie awake in bed and think of how he abandoned an ignorant creature to die alone. That was more than he could bear, as each time he closed his eyes he could see himself curled in a ball and left to perish, with people briefly glancing at him as they went on their way.

When he returned, the animal was covered in a growing pile of snow. Erik knelt again and brushed away what he could, which drew another whimper from the animal. He started to brush the snow onto his pant leg when he noticed the dark splotch. Bringing his hand to his face, he tasted the tip of his glove.

Blood.

The animal was injured, no doubt, but he didn't know where or to what extent. Only moving the dog would reveal that information.

"Don't bite me," he said under his breath as he grasped the dog around the middle and pulled it toward his knees.

A chain rattled and the animal yelped, which made Erik release it immediately. The dog lifted its head and stared at him a moment before it struggled to sit up. Within seconds the animal exhausted itself and fell, doing nothing more than whine. Again a chain rattled, yet Erik saw nothing around its neck.

With his brow furrowed, he felt around the body from beneath the front legs to the ribs and up to its tail. Nothing.

Perhaps the chain was underneath the animal. Doing his best to move slowly, Erik reached beneath the emaciated animal and lifted it partially from the snow. The dog arched its back and kicked wildly, yelping out in pain. The chain rattled again, and Erik finally found the source.

At first he couldn't move, as he had never seen anything like it before. His heart paused as he examined the injury then raced as he realized what had happened to the dog.

There was a combination of blood and mud everywhere as the animal had struggled and gnawed to free itself from the leg trap. Running his hand over the dog's back, Erik attempted to calm it as he groped for the chain.

The moment his hand neared the trap the dog screamed in a way he had never heard anything, man or beast, cry before. Startled, Erik moved back, allowing the animal its space so that it didn't feel threatened.

He exhaled again and swore under his breath. From what he had seen, the trap was nailed to the base of the tree, which meant he would have to either pry the animal from the trap or find an ax and return.

The last thing Erik wanted to do was leave the animal alone, but he wasn't sure he could open the trap with his bare hands. The dog was clearly skittish, which was expected. It was a young animal, thin as a rail and accustomed to living beneath the smokehouse. Frozen and in a great deal of agony, it was a danger to itself as well as to anyone who dared approach.

He had to remove the trap from the tree so he could carry the dog back to the Manor and clearly see how bad the injury was. In the dark it was impossible to see the depth of the wound or whether or not the bone was broken.

Rising, Erik stepped over the dog and tugged at the end of the chain secured to the tree. It didn't budge, even when he put his full weight into it.

He swore again and glanced around, hoping he had missed something he could use to break the chain. Searching was in vain, as the snow was building and making it impossible to find anything. Erik was almost certain that if he left the dog alone he wouldn't be able to find it again. Already his tracks were buried and the snow near the fence line was up to the middle of his shins.

His frustrations were quickly mounting. He clamped his hands around his head and growled, not knowing what else to do but return to the Manor, grab the axe, and hope for the best.

The moment he passed through the gate again he saw lantern light coming up the trail. Judging by size, he knew the petite frame belonged to either Sophia or Citrine.

"Here!" he yelled into the wind and snow.

The woman brought the lantern up to her face and Erik saw that it was Citrine.

"Fetch me an ax and bring it here at once," he shouted.

"Monsieur, what are you doing out here?" she called back.

"Can you lift an ax?" he shouted, patience waning.

She made no reply.

"Mademoiselle, can you lift an ax or not."

"I think so."

"Then bring it here at once!"

"Monsieur—"

"No questions! Do as I say!"

She visibly straightened and turned away, the lantern light disappearing as she scuttled down the hill again.

Through the snow he could see Turro's coach departing from the drive. His anger flared again, but he forced himself to turn and head back into the woods.

He rubbed his stiff hands together and fell to his knees. With snow blinding his eyes, he uncovered the dog, checking to be certain it was still alive. His first indication of life wasn't the rise and fall of lungs. With what little strength it had the animal lifted its head and licked the palm of his hand.

"Damn it, you better stay alive," he muttered as he unfastened his cloak and draped it over the dog's body.


	26. Steel Trap

Paladin27

Citrine stomped up the hillside carrying the ax in both hands. She grumbled to herself as the wind and snow hit her face, stinging her eyes and cheeks. What on earth did that foolish man want with an ax? His dinner was going cold, Sophia had wandered away, and now he was off in the orchards doing God knows what.

She tugged her hood over her eyes and wondered what had happened between Monsieur Belmont and Sophia. Not a note of music had left the parlor, but both student and teacher had stormed off. Sophia had muttered that he was an infuriating man before she stormed out the back door and disappeared toward the barn. Moments later Erik had followed, stomping up to his room like a horse before he exited through the front of the house.

Such dramatics must be exhausting, Citrine thought at the time. Now she hoped that Monsieur Belmont hadn't found Sophia injured. With how the wind was blowing she had heard several trees splinter and fall. Once Monsieur Turro had arrived no one had seen Sophia. Citrine had no idea where she was, but both Monsieur Dupree and Monsieur Monteclaire were searching for her. Neither of them had ventured to the orchards yet.

While lost in thought Citrine didn't notice the shadow moving swiftly toward her.

"Here," Erik's voice boomed above the storm.

"My God," she gasped. "Even in the snow you are silent."

He made no reply as he snatched the ax from her hands and lumbered into the woods.

"May I ask what you are doing?" Citrine questioned as she trotted after him, negotiating her way through the slush and ice.

"No," he said over his shoulder. "Stay by the fence."

"I'll have you know your food—which I added salt to—is going to be ruined by the time you return home," Citrine said under her breath.

He whipped around and pointed the ax at her. "I said stay there!"

Her pace slowed and she almost lost him. When she caught up again she found him standing beside a tree, the ax held above his head and his cloak tossed to the side. Below him was a crumpled form, its tail wagging.

"No, Monsieur!" she screamed, tearing across the snow, her feet sliding beneath her.

On her hands and knees she crawled toward the dog, screaming for him to stop. Before the ax lowered she grabbed hold of Erik's leg and knocked him off balance, causing him to drop the ax behind his back.

"Stupid woman," Erik muttered as he pulled her hands away from his knee.

"Don't kill him. It's my fault that he's here, Monsieur. Please, in the morning I'll ask Gabe to take him away," Citrine begged. "Please, Monsieur, I'll take him down to the road tonight, but please don't kill him."

"He's injured," Erik snapped as he retrieved the ax and glared at her.

Citrine wrung her hands. She crawled toward the dog and placed her hand to his muzzle, feeling his tongue lave her palm.

"Don't hurt him anymore," Citrine whispered as she scratched the top of the dog's head. "He means no harm, Monsieur. The poor thing has been wandering around for months, ever since he was weaned, I believe."

He stared at her a moment, his chest heaving as he wrapped his hands around the ax handle. "I didn't hurt him in the first place, if that's what you're implying."

Citrine made no reply. Her attentions were toward the dog, which was whining and attempting to inch closer to her. He couldn't move far and she feared his back was broken.

"What happened to him, Monsieur? I saw him this morning and he was fine."

"His foot is caught in a leg trap," he stated.

Citrine kissed the dog on the head. "My poor sweet boy," she said to him, hearing him whine and strain to be near her.

"I told you to stay put," Erik growled. "You're fortunate you didn't get yourself caught in a trap, Mademoiselle."

She ignored his words, fearing the poor creature was too weak to survive. So that the master of the house wouldn't notice, she had only brought small scraps for the pup. It was enough for him to survive, she knew, but not enough to sate the hunger of such a large animal. Often she wondered if her acts of mercy only sustained him until the inevitable.

"He knows you," Erik murmured remorsefully. "He's not frightened of you."

"Because I feed him and give him water when no one else will," she murmured. She glanced up and pursed her lips. "I apologize, Monsieur. I give him scraps. I should ask for your permission, I know, but he's so friendly, and I didn't want anything to happen to him."

Erik nodded and gestured for her to move aside. "I know. I've seen you."

She stared up at him, her eyes glassy. She should have known he had seen her feeding him.

"Move. I need to break the chain."

Citrine had barely moved when he hefted the ax over his head and let it fall. With a spark, the chain broke. The dog panicked and yelped at the noise, struggling to his feet. He held his front left paw in the air, his thin body trembling from cold and fear, tail between his legs.

"He won't hurt you," Citrine promised as she ran her hand down his spine, feeling each bone.

Erik gestured for Citrine to move further away.

"What are you going to do with him, Monsieur?" she asked nervously, fearing that he would leave the dog to fend for himself.

With the trap still attached to his foot, Citrine knew infection would set in or the pain would become too intense. She had heard of animals gnawing their paws off to escape and couldn't bear to think of poor Dublin limping around until he died of exhaustion and starvation.

"Remove the trap," he said as he handed her the ax.

"How?"

He glared at her again, his brow furrowed, jaw set. The stern expression on his face made her turn away.

"When I can see it clearly I will find a way," he snapped as he bent down and replaced his gloves.

With no other choice, Citrine stood back and watched Monsieur Belmont gather his cloak and shook snow off the fabric. He folded it in half and draped it over the hound, which had sat again and began licking at its injured paw still caught in the trap.

"Have you named him?" he asked without looking at her.

Citrine gave a sheepish grin. "I call him Dublin," she said. "He's a wolfhound, Monsieur. I thought it would be appropriate to give him an Irish name."

He grunted and placed his fist before the dog's nose, allowing the animal to smell him again. With a crooked grin he scooped the dog up, carefully supporting the weight of the trap so that it didn't pull on the injury. The dog growled and whined before Erik scratched him under the chin and held him firmly.

"You're not in Ireland," he said as he glanced at Citrine and carried the dog back toward the Manor.

-o-

Sleet had soaked Erik's shirt through by the time he reached the Manor. He shivered profusely, his teeth chattered and water dripped from his hair down his face. There was no doubt in his mind that he would have a fever the following day, though he knew he was more capable of combating illness over guilt.

He glanced down and saw the dog watching him. The emaciated beast had exhausted himself again and resorted to resting his chin on Erik's arm, whining with each step he took. Though kept in the cloak the animal continued to tremble, most likely from fear and pain.

Over his own labored breaths he still heard Citrine laboring to keep his pace. Her insinuation that he had harmed the dog still aggravated him, especially since she had nearly thrown herself before the ax to save the frail creature.

She was loyal at least, he reasoned. He'd never seen such an act of loyalty and compassion for anyone or anything, human or beast.

"Monsieur, if you would allow it I will keep him with me for the night," Citrine said as she followed Erik around to the back of the house.

"Perhaps," he said as he stepped aside and waited for her to open the door.

Once they were inside he glanced around, searching for a place to leave the dog while the trap was removed.

Citrine disappeared, saying over her shoulder that she would gather old towels to keep the wound clean and to dry the dog's fur. With no place to lay the dog, Erik set him on the kitchen table.

He heard Citrine gasp when she entered the kitchen.

Rolling his eyes, he turned to face her. "There's no place—"

Sophia stared back at him, her mouth agape.

"I thought you had gone to dinner," he said as he turned back to the dog.

"I had a terrible headache," she said.

Erik's back straightened at her words. He felt his ears burn but he held his tongue and bent over the table, examining the steel trap digging into the dog's foot.

"Citrine told me you found her dog," Sophia said as she stepped beside him.

Still he said nothing, his concentration on the animal's bloody foot. He saw no clear way to remove the trap, which frustrated him. The dog was still whining in agony as it licked its paw and bit at the trap.

"What are you going to do?" Sophia asked. "I don't see a way to remove the trap—"

"If you have such a terrible headache then perhaps you should return to your home and lie down awhile," Erik suggested through his teeth.

He could see her staring at him from the corner of his eye, her arms crossed. She was wearing a simpler frock than she had donned for her piano lessons, which only furthered his irritation. Touching her would have been unnecessary if she had worn this dress. As he stood bent over the kitchen table he could still feel his hands skimming along her back. If it weren't for the scent of wet fur in the air he would have been lost in the recollection of her smell.

"How are you going to remove the trap?" Sophia asked, ignoring his gruff words.

"I don't know," he said under his breath.

Sophia took a towel and wiped the dog's back. "You won't amputate his foot, will you?"

"I said I don't know," he grumbled, his eyes suddenly fixed on her. "Return home. Your day is done, Mademoiselle Dupree. I see no reason for you to be in my home now."

She looked as pathetic as the dog lying on the table, her green eyes large and glassy. He couldn't bear looking at her. With an exasperated sigh he turned away and grasped both sides of the trap.

The dog growled, but Sophia hushed him and continued to pet him.

"Why are you angry with me?" she asked softly.

"You are not ready for lessons," he muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

His fingers still stung from the cold, but Erik managed to pry open the steel claws biting into the dog's paw. Sophia reached forward and eased the animal's torn foot from the trap and wrapped a towel around the wound, which had started pulsing blood the moment it was freed.

"You're not serious about music."

"Yes, I am."

Erik refused to look at her while he examined the trap. It appeared to be fairly new and he wondered if there were more in the snow. Once the storm stopped he would venture out again with a broom and search for others. If he found out who set traps on his property they would be quite fortunate not to have their privates caught in its unforgiving claws, he thought as he saw the dog lie its head down and sigh.

"You've not so much as played a single note," Erik grumbled. "If you were serious enough you would have embraced music."

"I do. I will."

"No, you do not."

Sophia hesitated, her eyes fixed on the dog. "Erik—"

He swung toward her, startled by her using his given name. He had wanted her to call him by his first name, but now that she had said it he wanted her to call him Monsieur Belmont. Cold formality was what he needed to forget her, to erase her taste and smell, the feel of her warm skin, her soft breath.

He stared at her a moment, his eyes searching her face. She didn't dare glance at him, and for that he was glad.

"If you cannot devote your time to music then I suggest you never return to the parlor again, Mademoiselle. I have neither the time nor the desire to pursue something fruitless. I will not waste my time with an undedicated student."

Sophia said nothing when she stared back at him. Erik expected her to turn and walk out again but she stood her ground, her hand still furiously drying the dog. His gaze faltered and he turned his back on her, suddenly not wanting her to see the mask.

He felt her step forward. Even with his back turned he swore her hand was beside his. If he opened his fingers they would touch one another.

"This evening in the parlor—"

"Care for this beast," he said before he walked from the room and locked his bedroom door.


	27. Citrine's Intentions

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Paladin27

Together Sophia and Citrine cleaned and dressed Dublin's wounded foot and moved him into the parlor where they felt he would be more comfortable. Citrine placed old blankets on the ground while Sophia added an extra log to the fire to keep him warm. The dog licked at his bandages but appeared content once Citrine placed a bowl of water in front of him.

While they worked Citrine said nothing of seeing Sophia and Monsieur Belmont together in the kitchen. She had stopped the moment she heard them speaking and had tiptoed down the hall.

Citrine had never seen a man attempt to fight his feelings for a woman with such valor. Despite his attempts to ignore Sophia he couldn't help but lean toward her. His actions and words even made Citrine's heart stop. She had stood and watched them stand by side, neither one of them willing to make the first move, to extend and join hands.

It had been terribly difficult to eavesdrop without yelling at the two of them for their foolishness. Even someone without eyes could see that Sophia had no interest in Monsieur Turro. Her feelings were reserved for Monsieur Belmont. He, however, would never admit to his feelings for Sophia.

He was a fool, she thought with a smirk as she tucked Dublin into his makeshift bed. A fool in need of a push in the right direction. She fed Dublin breadcrumbs she had saved for the birds and allowed him to lave her hand while Sophia finished wrapping the last bandage on his foot.

"It's an awful lot of fuss for a dog, don't you think?" Sophia asked after Citrine had scratched the dog's belly so much that he dozed off.

Citrine shrugged. "It's nice to have something to take care of." She smiled and patted Dublin's chest as she spoke to him like an infant. "Especially some poor creature who never had anyone to love him, isn't that right?"

"Look at him," Sophia said, nodding toward the dog. "He's a glutton. You're spoiling him."

"He has a right to be a glutton. He would have died out there tonight if Monsieur Belmont hadn't found him."

Sophia patted the dog's head but made no reply.

"He stormed out of here," Citrine commented.

Sophia glanced at Citrine and made a face. "So?"

Citrine shrugged again. "So he must not be very pleased with the way you played the piano."

"I haven't played yet."

"Ah."

Sophia crossed her arms and cocked her head to the side. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"Out with it, Citrine."

"You were in there for a half hour. What did you learn?"

Sophia scoffed. "You're being ridiculous."

Citrine feigned surprise. "I didn't say a word, Mademoiselle. It's just that I've never heard of piano lessons in which the student doesn't play the piano. Did you discuss music?"

Sophia's cheeks reddened and she turned away. "We did nothing at all. He dropped his music and he was angry. Then he simply stormed out of the room and left me sitting there alone."

"You forget I was standing in the kitchen, Sophia. You left first—and in quite a huff, I might add."

Sophia sighed. "You should mind your own business, Citrine," she muttered, though her tone was too light for her to be truly angry with her friend.

Citrine laughed to herself. "You must think up better stories if you're going to lie."

Sophia sobered at her words. For a while she stared at the dog before she finally sighed. "He's…I'm not sure. He acts as though he wants to teach me, but then I don't know if he even wants me in the room with him. I think I'm a burden to him. But he's the one who offered to teach me! I wish that man would make up his mind. He's simply dreadful, don't you think?"

Citrine blinked. "Simply dreadful," she mocked.

Sophia rolled her eyes in aggravation. "You are enjoying this, aren't you? You think there's something … impure between us?"

"I said no such thing. You're feeling guilty for absolutely no reason."

Sophia's lips twitched but she didn't reply. Clearly flustered, she turned away and straightened the skirt on the piano bench.

Citrine rose to her feet. "I'll take Monsieur Belmont his supper. What are you going to do? If you're smart you'll stay away from your brother, Sophia. He was livid when he was looking for you earlier."

Sophia frowned. The ceiling creaked as Erik walked across his room and she glanced up. "I told him my eye gives me a headache sometimes and that today it was worse than usual. He won't be happy, but he won't argue—at least not until I'm feeling better."

"Did you see Monsieur Turro?"

Sophia shook her head. "I heard him say he was 'very disappointed'," she imitated, making her voice deeper as she gestured with her hands. "But I'm sure he will arrange something for us tomorrow."

Citrine nodded. "And then what will your excuse be?"

Sophia glared at Citrine. "That wasn't an excuse."

Citrine made a face but didn't argue. She too was looking at the ceiling as their employer began playing his violin.

Both girls stood side-by-side and stared at the ceiling as he played, each of them following the sound of his movements across the floor.

Citrine didn't recognize the song but it sounded like a requiem. She glanced at Sophia and saw that she had closed her eyes while she listened. She was standing on the tips of her toes as though trying to get closer to the music's origin.

Or its creator. Citrine couldn't decide which. It was obvious to her that Sophia had feelings for him, even though she attempted to hide them.

The dog at their feet whimpered again and broke their silence.

"Would you give Dublin some table scraps while I take MonsieurBelmont his supper?" Citrine asked. "Or would you rather I care for the dog?"

Sophia shook her head. "I'll bring the dog some food. You take care of…Monsieur Belmont."

"Are you certain?" Citrine prodded.

Sophia nodded but didn't turn to face Citrine.

"I would rather care for the dog."

Citrine smiled, seeing Sophia's devious expression reflected in the wall mirror.

"Now Dublin, you leave that bandage on, do you hear me?" she said over her shoulder.

The dog yawned and whined again, which made Citrine laugh. She left the parlor and reached into her apron pocket where she had a few breadcrumbs remaining. As she walked she dropped them onto the floor until she reached the stairs. Then, after leaving one on each stair, she returned to the kitchen.

"Someone has to do something," she said to herself.

-o-

Once he stripped off his clothes and hung them over the back of his chair, Erik changed into a dry lawn shirt and trousers. He was still shivering, so he added the last log to his fire and sat before it, rubbing his hands together as he waited for his teeth to stop chattering and his hair to dry.

He felt strange having saved the dog. It wasn't in his nature to think of other things, other people or animals. Years of seeing animals and people beaten into submission at the circus had desensitized him. Years of being beaten into submission himself had allowed him to block out almost all feeling, he thought.

And then there was Christine, who had brought new feelings to the surface, new sensations he had never before experienced yet he couldn't understand how he had lived without them. She left him feeling as though he were drunk, as though the ground was unsteady and the air was heavy. She made him feel more alive than he had ever been in his life.

At first he had enjoyed how she hypnotized him. It made him want to utilize Box Five, which he had claimed years before noticing her. He wanted to inch closer, to stand with her on the stage, or at least in the orchestra pit.

He wanted to touch her, and at first it had been nothing more than the innocent desire to know what her skin felt like. He wanted to feel warmth.

An ember popped from the hearth and landed on his shoe, which drew him from his daydreams. He stood up and stretched, his muscles feeling tight and his body still chilled. If he continued to sit he knew he would never be warm, so he picked up his violin and decided to play awhile.

In the parlor below he could hear Sophia and Citrine's muffled voices.

Erik grumbled to himself that at least something in the house was receiving attention. He chided himself for being envious of a dog. The poor thing was fortunate it didn't understand their constant babbling. He could just lie on the floor with his legs in the air as they clamored on and rubbed his belly.

At least he could work uninterrupted, he thought.

Cold soon gave way to a fever, and Erik wondered what Citrine had done with his supper. He placed his violin into its case again and considered walking down to the kitchen to see what she was doing. If that dog had its supper before he did there would be Hell to pay, he muttered to himself.

Donning his waistcoat and cravat, Erik glanced once in the mirror before combing his hair back. He tugged at his overcoat sleeves and gave a curt nod.

Footsteps drew his attention to his bedroom door and he walked across the room, intending to snarl at Citrine so she would leave him be for the remainder of the evening. He didn't want to risk her questioning him about Sophia or talking about the dog. He had done as much as he wanted for the animal. If it lived then it lived, and if it died then it was nature's way.

He pulled the door open and found Sophia climbing the stairs. At his door stood the injured dog, it's bandaged paw held in the air and his soft brown eyes staring up.

Erik glanced from the dog to Sophia and back again.

"Take him downstairs," Erik ordered.

"I tried. He came up on his own accord and went straight for your room," she said. "God knows why," she said under her breath.

Erik's cold gaze settled on her, which made her turn away. "Speak louder if you have something to say to me."

Sophia glared at him a moment before she patted her knee. "Come on, Dublin."

The dog sat down and began licking at its bandage.

"No, Dublin, stop that," Sophia yelled. She looked at Erik and turned her head to the side. "Make him stop."

Erik stared at the dog, which sniffed the floor and then Erik's shoe before he moved his foot away. The dog looked up at him, his tongue lolling from his mouth.

"Take him away," Erik ordered.

"Dublin, come on," Sophia called, tapping her leg again.

Dublin lifted his head enough for Erik's fingers to skim past his ears, but Erik stepped back once the dog licked his pant leg and rubbed his face against his knee.

"Mademoiselle, take him downstairs. I don't much care for animals. If he's up here again he'll be outside," Erik snarled.

Dublin, oblivious to Erik's words, nudged his head through the doorway and began wagging his tail as he limped forward.

"Found a new friend, did you?" Citrine asked from the bottom of the stairs.

Both Erik and Sophia turned their attention to Citrine, while Dublin lumbered into Erik's room unnoticed.

"I want him back downstairs. I'm not—" he looked around and exhaled hard. "Where in the hell—"

Erik turned and saw the dog sniffing his blankets. He closed his eyes for a moment and attempted to control his anger.

He refused to care for a dog. He couldn't care for an animal; he had no experience in caring for anything other than his music.

"Here's your food," Citrine said as she followed Erik into his room and set the tray on his desk.

"I'll excuse you both from your duties if this animal isn't out of my room at once," Erik said through his teeth.

"I understand, Monsieur, but he was bound to like you. Why, you saved his life tonight. He's showing his gratitude."

Sophia stepped through the doorway and Erik followed her gaze as the dog stood on his hind legs and prepared to jump on the bed.

"Dublin!" Citrine scolded. "Where are your manners?"

"Mademoiselle—"

"Monsieur Belmont, I assure you that once I bring Dublin's food into the parlor he'll leave you alone. A dog's loyalty only extends to his stomach sometimes, and I know he's starving to death."

"I'll get it," Sophia said as she turned to leave.

"No, you make sure Dublin doesn't remove that bandage. I'll fix him something for his dinner."

Before Sophia and Erik could protest Citrine was gone. They both stared at the dog, which had curled up at the foot of the bed and closed his eyes. In silent satisfaction, he wagged his tail.


	28. The Occurence

Paladin27

The uncomfortable silence lingered as Sophia stayed near the door while Erik stood at the end of his bed with his arms crossed. He was still studying the dog with silent determination, though Sophia didn't truly believe he hated the animal. If he hadn't wanted Dublin to survive he wouldn't have saved him.

There was only so much one could hide, and this man was more transparent than he thought.

He sighed heavily and shook his head, muttering something under his breath. He glared at her from the corner of his eye before he exhaled again, accentuating his irritation.

Sophia was mildly surprised that an iceberg hadn't sprung up between them, as his mood was foul and his treatment cold.

She glanced at the clock on the mantle and saw that only two minutes had passed since Citrine left. There was nothing to keep her in Monsieur Belmont's bedchamber. The dog was asleep at the foot of the bed, the wrapping to its paw still in place. Her employer made it quite obvious that he didn't want her in his room. He wanted nothing to do with her.

Sophia took a step back and the floor creaked with her movements. Erik glanced at her from the corner of his left eye.

"You are excused," he muttered as he walked to his desk and began sorting through sheets of paper.

They were musical scores, Sophia noticed as she stood and watched him make several piles. He was still watching her from the corner of his eye, his face twisted in a frown of detestation.

"Why did you do it?" Sophia whispered.

He didn't turn to face her, but he returned his attention to the papers in his hands. "By morning you may find employment elsewhere."

"Because you kissed me?" she blurted out angrily.

His back straightened, his fists wrinkling the sheet music. "I said you are excused."

Sophia pursed her lips. He angered her more than she had expected. He was impossible to speak to, stubborn as an ox, and a terrible enigma.

"You are as far from a gentleman as a man can be, Erik," Sophia hissed, standing with her chin up and her arms akimbo.

"Leave or you will be quite sorry."

Sophia ignored his words. She moved forward until she stood within arm's reach. "You offer me lessons but not once have I played."

Erik whipped around. "You refused to play, Sophia! I asked you to attempt, but what did you say? You preferred to hear me play."

"Because I enjoy your music."

He hesitated, his mouth opening and closing as he stared at her. Sophia thought he would grab her by the shoulders and force her from the room, but he did nothing more than search her eyes.

His expression seemed to contradict her compliment.

"You don't believe me?" Sophia asked.

Exhaling hard, he turned away and began smoothing the crumpled papers on his desk.

-o-

She enjoyed his music.

The words he wanted to hear her say were too much to bear. She enjoyed his compositions, but not his company, Erik reminded himself. He had earned Christine's trust through his voice. Now he was doing something similar to Sophia, something just as wicked that would end just as horrendously as it had with Mademoiselle Daae.

"What is there to enjoy?" he growled, keeping his back to her. "None of them are published—none are good enough to ever be played for an audience. They're infantile, obscene, an assault to the ears."

"Would you rather have me find them appalling?" Sophia asked.

Erik stood in silence, concentrating on the sheet music. He didn't know what he wanted and he was afraid to look at Sophia and discover he did want something.

"Surely you were aware that my aunt was employed by one of the Paris opera houses. Perhaps if you sent her some of your compositions she could assist you in finding a place for them."

"There is no place for them," he said quietly.

Erik gritted his teeth in anger. He didn't want Sophia's sympathy and he was tired of feeling sorry for himself. He had never been more acutely aware of his frustrations than he was in this moment. Everything he wanted was standing behind him and he knew it. Companionship, a music student, another human being…she was all of those things.

"I believe I like them better than Mozart," Sophia said.

"Only because you know nothing about music," he muttered.

He heard her skirts rustle. "I know what I like."

Erik's fingers were beginning to burn, and though he was certain the papers could not get any straighter he couldn't bear to face her. He was terrified of her rejection, of having her turn her back to him. She held more power over him than he was comfortable with and it angered him. He was losing control all over again, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat.

"May I ask," Sophia said so quietly he could barely hear her. "That is, I mean to say, Monsieur Bel…Erik."

He turned his head so that he could see her from the corner of his eye. She was standing with her hands clasped before her and her head bowed.

"Was it a mistake?"

"No," he said before he considered her question. He turned to face her. "Was what a mistake?"

Sophia licked her lips. "The…the…the thing, the incident, the…occurrence."

"When I…when we…"

Sophia nodded. "The occurrence."

He nodded solemnly. "In the parlor."

"By the piano."

"This evening."

"Was it a mistake?" Sophia asked again, her patience waning.

Erik loosened his cravat. He felt as though he were being roasted alive now that Sophia had posed a most uncomfortable question.

"Monsieur?"

There was only one way to know for sure if it was a mistake.

Erik grabbed Sophia by the shoulders and pulled her within an inch of his face.

"You know nothing, absolutely nothing about who I am or what I've done in my lifetime. You are an innocent, a doe-eyed child who knows nothing of the world. You're ignorant, aren't you? Completely unaware of anything that exists beyond the orchards."

Sophia's lips parted but she said nothing. She nodded barely enough for him to notice.

"I am that world, Mademoiselle. I am everything out there that frightens children at night."

She shook her head and frowned, mouthing something he didn't understand.

"Tell me right now, this very instant that you know you made a most treacherous and foolhardy mistake, Mademoiselle Dupree. Say it and I will not harm you. I will not lay a finger on you or muss a single hair on your head from this day forward."

He felt her breathing hard, her chest moving up and down, her nostrils flared as she pursed her lips. She shook her head again, harder than before, determination growing in her eyes.

"Remain silent and you only tempt me, and I am not a beast that needs much coaxing. In the end, remember that you made your choice. You were offered everything and you refused your salvation."

He drew her closer, so close that all he could see were her green eyes staring back at him. He expected her to either faint or scream. When she did nothing he thought perhaps he had startled her into silence.

Erik could no longer tolerate silence. He wanted to know, wanted it said to his face what she thought or what she wanted. There would be no more guessing and false hope. If she wanted anything to do with him it would be made clear in this moment.

"Make your decision," he growled, shaking her slightly to jar her into speech.

Sophia closed her eyes but said nothing in return. Erik opened his mouth to protest her silence, but she wriggled from his grasp leaned into him, and with all the desire he had felt boiling inside for years, he kissed her; fiercely, with more greed and more want than he ever knew existed in himself. With more passion than he had ever felt before they were joined, her hands on his arms as she stood on her toes and willingly kissed him.

In an instant she gave him something small without a bargain, without pity. Something no one had given him freely before.

Erik took it without question, bracing her around the waist and holding her tight, fearing that if she were a dream she would disappear.

But she didn't. She was there, in his arms, her lips to his. No begging to save her true love, no fighting to escape. A living woman, who did not die when he kissed her, had taken the first step.

Sophia lingered once the kiss ended and whispered against his lips, "That is my decision regarding the occurrence."

Then she kissed him again.  



	29. Transparent Barrier

Paladin29

Erik's grip softened as Sophia rested her forehead on his shoulder and breathed in his masculine scent. She felt his hand nervously run along her spine as he swallowed air through his parted lips. At last she had found a way to keep him quiet and enjoy his company.

It was odd that he was still a stranger to her, but Sophia felt comfortable in his presence. Despite his harsh words and gruff exterior she felt safe in his arms, more so than she felt when she was with Karl Turro.

Erik breathed hard against her ear, unabashedly smelling her hair, his lips tickling the shell of her ear. She smiled against his overcoat and closed her eyes, feeling his fingers draw circles on her back.

"Why?"

Her eyes popped open but she didn't lift her head. She thought if she ignored his question he would forget that he had asked her anything.

"Mademoiselle—"

"If I am to call you Erik then you must call me Sophia," she murmured.

His fingers touched her chin and drew her eyes up to meet his.

"Why, Sophia?"

Sophia smiled, silently reassuring him that she had made her decision and she didn't regret it. His expression hardened and she knew he needed something more.

Her hands trembled as she gripped his arms. "Why did you kiss me first?"

His head turned slightly to the side as he stared into her left eye, the one in which she was losing her sight. It made her uncomfortable and she gripped his arms tighter, fearing he would say something cruel.

"Because you are beautiful," he said quietly, looking over her head. Even in a whisper he spoke with power, with masculinity in every syllable. "Because I wanted to kiss you."

Karl had told her once that he thought she was pretty, but his words didn't weaken her knees the way Erik's voice did. It made her heart race and her head feel light. There was sincerity in his words despite his gruff, growl of a voice.

She wanted to know more about this man who filled her ears with sweet music and her nerves with more electricity and pleasure than she had ever known. She wanted more of this man who made her stomach tighten merely by his presence, who made her feel something deeply intimate when he did nothing more than touch her chin with his fingers.

Instinctively she reached up and caressed the unmasked side of his face, watching as he swallowed and closed his eyes. His hand reached up and kept her fingers in place, allowing her to feel the warmth of his skin.

Sophia felt him exhale against her wrist and she smiled, wanting to see and feel more of him. She lifted her left hand, her fingers prying at the edges of the mask.

Before she had a firm hold on the covering Erik pulled back, almost violently swatting her hands away.

"No," he growled with his back to her, holding his hand over his face.

The tone of his voice startled Sophia, the single word ripping through her. She stood with her arms straight at her sides and her mouth agape, unsure of what to say or do.

"You will never, ever touch it again," he said coldly.

"I didn't mean—"

"I know damn well what your intentions were, Sophia," he said, turning enough for her to see his left eye. "Swear to me that you will never touch my mask or request to see what lies beneath. Is that understood?"

Sophia stood in silence, afraid to agree or disagree.

"Sophia," he growled again. "Swear to me. Do it!"

She took a step forward and wrung her hands. "Don't ask me to make promises at your discretion, Erik. Give me a moment to consider."

Erik swung around to face Sophia. "There is nothing to consider." He pointed at her but hesitated to say another word. Slowly he turned his back to her. "It's a mistake."

"What's a mistake? I don't understand."

"I know what's best," he said through his teeth. "And you will not question my word in regard to this. Is that clear?"

"I will be in the parlor," she said simply.

Erik didn't acknowledge her words. She heard him exhale as his head lowered. Sophia took one last look at him as he stood with his back to her before she turned the doorknob and quietly walked out of his room.

Her curiosity was definitely piqued, but she knew she had to respect his wishes, at least for the time being. More than anything she wanted to earn his trust, which she felt she was doing when she was in the parlor with him. She gently ran her fingers down the door and hoped he would join her again.

Before she turned to walk down the stairs, a hand reached out and covered her mouth as another grasped her around the waist and dragged her down the hall.

"Quiet now," a voice snarled in her ear. "Quiet or any attempt you make at being heard will be the last breath from your body."

-o-

Erik stood by the window after Sophia left and watched for her to walk to her home. He considered going after her, but chasing Christine had gained him nothing and he would not make the same mistake twice.

The last moments he had seen Christine still haunted him. He stared at the palm of his hand and thought about how she had handed him her engagement ring and left with her true fiancé.

He had thought for certain that he would die. Alone, completely forgotten, he would die, perhaps in the crumbling opera house, perhaps in the streets. As he walked through the darkness, through the endless catacombs, he had cynically considered joining the nearest circus and volunteering to show his face to a paying crowd. Once Christine left nothing had mattered - not life, not music, not food or drink. His heart continued to beat, but he didn't live, and once she was gone he realized he had never quite lived.

But Erik had made up his mind this time: he would not allow Sophia to see his face, ever. And he would not eavesdrop on her as he had done with Christine because he wanted to win her honestly, like any other gentleman.

He sighed and shook his head while he waited and realized she still hadn't appeared outside. He knew she was speaking with Citrine and with the way those two could talk it might be dawn before she returned home. With nothing left to do he decided to sit and compose a while, as his brain was too filled with thoughts and his body too unsettled for sleep.

When he turned he found the dog sitting directly behind his chair, the bandage on his paw completely removed.

"You stupid beast," Erik muttered as he got on his hands and knees and looked beneath the bed for the discarded bandages.

Almost instantly his bed creaked, and even though he knew what he would find, Erik still looked up and saw the dog sitting on his bed, his tail wagging back and forth and injured paw held above the mattress. If he hadn't been an Irish wolfhound he never would have made it onto the bed with his injury, but this was a large and determined animal, one that would not easily be deterred from what he wanted.

"No," Erik said sternly as he climbed to his feet, the sullied bandages in hand. "Absolutely not."

The dog lay down on its side and whined as he rubbed his head into the coverlet, making himself comfortable. His front paws dangled in the air, and for the first time Erik had a clear view of the damage done by the trap. Citrine had cut the hair around the wound to reveal how pink and raw the animal's flesh was around the puncture wound. He couldn't see bone, as blood had dried over the deepest parts, but Erik guessed the steel had bitten down into the muscles and most likely to the bone.

Erik sat on the edge of the bed and felt the dog nudge him. He glanced down and saw the wolfhound's large, square head resting on his lap. Every time the dog blinked his eyebrows moved, which made Erik smile. He had never seen a dog with eyebrows. He had never seen any animal this close before.

Seeing no other choice, Erik scratched the top of the dog's head and behind his ears. He stared at the dog and couldn't bring himself to call him Dublin, Irish wolfhound or not. It didn't seem suitable for such a powerful animal.

"You're fierce, aren't you? Bred to take down wild game, like elk or deer," Erik said as the dog rolled to its back and unabashedly requested a belly rub. The dog's actions made Erik chuckle to himself. He had laughed so few times in his life that the sound was almost foreign to his ears. "Perhaps not so ferocious when your feet are in the air, eh?"

Erik continued to look at the animal's paw. It angered him that someone had set a trap on his land without permission. In the morning he would venture out and find the rest of them, as he was certain there were more the snow was currently burying.

After a while Erik's eyes felt heavy and he stood again, grabbing the dog under its front legs and gently placing him on the ground. He undressed while the dog sat on the floor and watched him as he walked across the room to his dresser.

He shared his cold supper with the dog, whom he called half a dozen different names to see if he would respond. None of them worked, but Erik decided he could try again later. He begrudgingly realized that the dog wasn't going to leave, and though he would attempt to convince Citrine that he didn't want the beast in his room or in his home, he found he was enjoying the dog's quiet company.

Once they finished their dinner Erik turned down the lamps and settled into bed, telling the hound sternly that he would sleep at the end of the bed. The dog stared back at him, his ears lifted in interest at his master's words.

With one final pat on the end, Erik turned over in bed and closed his eyes, longing to see Sophia again but at least partially contented that he was not entirely alone. The wolfhound didn't replace human contact, but he provided something, a long-lost sense of comfort.

It came as no surprise when a wet nose exhaled on the back of Erik's neck moments after he had fallen asleep. A warm tongue laved him awake, startling him into turning onto his back and fumbling for the light.

He was met by the same warm, wet tongue licking his face, front claws stabbing at his shoulder as the dog stood with his back legs on the floor and front legs on the bed.

"Damn you," Erik said under his breath as he hefted his newfound companion onto the bed. He chuckled again, feeling the dog's tail wagging back and forth against his leg.

"Fidelio," he said as he turned down the lamp again. "My loyal, insistent companion."

He closed his eyes and smiled as Fidelio rested his head on the pillow as well. At least the bed was warmer, Erik thought.

He had just started to fall asleep when the front door slammed shut and glass broke somewhere in the house. He sat up immediately and tossed the covers aside, hearing Citrine scream out just as he reached his bedroom window.

"Sophia!" she screamed again, running after the coach leaving the yard.


	30. Mmll Dupree's whereabouts

Paladin30

Sophia was paralyzed by fear as the stranger led her into the spare bedroom at the end of the hall. She was terrified of the hand around her waist and the one covering her mouth and nose, and the moment the bedroom door closed she nearly fainted.

A strong smell of leather reminded her of Erik, but she couldn't imagine him abducting her and forcing her into a room.

"Monsieur," she breathed, speaking through his outstretched fingers. Her head was swimming with terror, heartbeat drumming in her ears.

Hot breaths on the side of her neck kept her conscious as the man growled for her to put her hands behind her back. She knew for certain that it wasn't Erik the moment her abductor shook her, forcing her to comply.

"Please don't hurt me," Sophia whispered, feeling her knees go weak.

No answer came and her lips began to tremble. She felt the man step away, his hand leaving her mouth for only a moment before he wrenched her right arm behind her back. She inhaled sharply, which earned her a pinch to her right forearm.

More than anything Sophia wanted to sink to her knees and cry for mercy. She couldn't find the strength to scream or run away. As much as she wanted to escape, she was too terrified to move.

"Please," she whispered through his fingers. "Please let me go."

"Shut up," the man hissed, his hand hard against her mouth, pressing her lips against her teeth.

The room was far too dark for her to see, so she closed her eyes and prayed that the hand groping from her stomach to her hips would stop. Her knees buckled when she felt his chin against her shoulder.

The man dragged Sophia toward the window and forced her head to one side, facing her away from the window as he pulled back the curtains.

Light entered the room and Sophia saw her surroundings for the first time. The sight of the closed door and the bed made her panic, sending a surge of urgency to flee at once. Her knees locked, her hands balling into fists as she prepared to fight her way out.

Sophia thrashed for only a moment before he grabbed her by the hair and knocked her off balance. With a violent jerk he forced her upright and held her firmly against his body, forcing her to feel the stiff outline in his trousers.

"Don't fight me," he said, rubbing up and down against her back.

Sophia inhaled sharply and felt a sob rising into her throat. Tears stung her eyes as she braced herself for pain, unsure of what he would do to her, but knowing it would be something terrible. She had heard enough stories of brutality to fear her fate.

He ran his hand along her face in a clumsy caress. "Do you know what that is, Mademoiselle?" he whispered, biting at her ear.

There was no stopping her senses from waning. She whispered one last time, begging for mercy before she fainted.

The next thing she knew she was in a carriage, with a dark stranger sitting across from her. Groggy and disoriented, she lifted her head from the soft velvet seat and attempted to separate her surroundings from the darkness.

"Where—where am I?" she asked, fear curling in her belly. One by one she remembered the details of the night. She remembered the hand over her mouth, the smell of leather in her nostrils, and the distinct threat hard against her lower back.

Slowly she sat up, her throat tightening as the face came into view.

"You should think twice before canceling dinner with me, Mademoiselle."

-o-

Erik raced down the stairs and crunched over the remnants of a broken wine bottle in the middle of the hall. He tore through the front door and into the night, wasting no time with his cloak, which he had draped sideways around his body. He had quickly scrambled into trousers and a shirt, as the scream he had heard had sent him flying from his bedchamber, heedless to the cold and snow.

Holding his mask in place, Erik met Citrine in front of the manor, where Gabe had joined her. Gabe had Citrine by the waist, holding her back from the coach that had disappeared down the driveway.

"What happened?" Erik questioned.

Gabe shook his head as he clutched Citrine, keeping her from sinking to her knees. He was too preoccupied with calming Citrine to look Erik in the face.

"Where is Mademoiselle Dupree?"

Citrine took a ragged breath. "There was a man…"

"Where? In my home?"

She nodded, her eyes still searching the driveway as snowflakes landed in her hair and on her face. "He came down the stairs, but I was in the cellar. When I heard footsteps I walked into the kitchen because I first thought it was you, Monsieur, but I knew it couldn't be since you tread much lighter. I thought it was Monsieur Dupree. I was so startled, though, that I dropped the wine bottle I was bringing up."

"Where is he? Where is Philippe?"

Citrine pursed her lips. She glanced back at the home Sophia and Philippe shared. "He's inside, I believe."

"Then who was in my home?"

Citrine shook her head. "I didn't see his face, but I saw the man put a woman into the carriage. I called to him, but he signaled his driver to leave. I didn't know what else to do, Monsieur, so I screamed."

"Whose carriage was it?"

Citrine looked apologetic as she clung to Gabe and cast her eyes down. "I don't know who it belonged to, Monsieur. I apologize for not making greater haste."

Erik stared down the empty driveway. He was still breathing heavily through his mouth, his thoughts wound around Sophia. He could still feel the warmth of her hand against his face despite the bitter wind hitting his face.

Her absence made him want to scream. She was supposed to be in the house still. She was supposed to be either in the parlor or talking to Citrine.

His face burned with anger. They would have been together in the parlor if he hadn't told her to comply with his rules.

She couldn't be gone, Erik thought, his eyes desperately flitting around as he searched for some trace of her. He wouldn't allow it. And if anything happened to her it would be his fault.

"What are you going to do?" Citrine asked once Erik began walking backwards toward the stable.

"It's Turro," he said as he turned on his heel. "Monsieur Monteclaire, ready my horse."

Both Citrine and Gabe followed Erik to the stable, their footsteps crunching on the hardened snow. Erik glanced back at the two and saw Fidelio limping along behind them, negotiating his way through the snow as he pursued his master.

Erik whistled and the dog stopped, his head cocked to the side and tail erect. "Take him inside," Erik said as he nodded to Citrine. "And keep him by the fire."

Citrine immediately turned and called to the dog, but he ignored her, determined to follow Erik to the stable. She grabbed him by the tail and forced him to turn, but he yelped, causing Citrine to release him.

"Monsieur," Citrine shouted.

"Go inside," Erik replied, ignoring her as he entered the stable and glanced around the unfamiliar space. Two black horses stared at him as he entered, while a smaller gray horse snorted at his intrusion. He turned his attention to the two black horses.

"Which one is the gelding?" Erik asked, glancing back at Gabe.

"Monsieur, with all due respect I don't have a horse for you," Gabe said once he caught up with Erik.

Erik glared at him. "Then find one," he hissed before he stormed out of the stable.

"Where will you be, Monsieur?" Gabe called after him.

"With Philippe Dupree," Erik answered before he disappeared into the snowy night.


	31. The Spirits of Horses

Paladin31

Erik was livid by the time he reached the small home Philippe and Sophia shared. He saw a lamp burning through the opaque curtains and wasted no time knocking. He had no desire to be polite. He wanted answers concerning Sophia's disappearance and he suspected Philippe knew where Karl Turro had taken her.

"Philippe!" Erik bellowed.

He counted to three before he kicked the front door twice, hearing it splinter upon the second blow.

"What in the hell?" Philippe yelled as Erik stepped through the broken door.

Philippe, dressed for bed, ran toward the front door, ignoring the seething figure who had intruded upon his home.

"Where did he take her?" Erik demanded.

Philippe looked past Erik at the snow drifting through the now useless door. "Coldest damned day of the year and you break my door. You break my door! Have you no respect for anyone?"

"I don't care about your door! Where did he take her?"

Philippe glared at him briefly before he bent and felt along the doorframe while he attempted to fit the door back into place. "Who? What in the hell are you talking about?"

Erik grabbed Philippe by the shirt collar and brought him to his feet. He saw a glint of fear show through Philippe's hatred before he shoved him into the wall. "Where did he take Sophia?" he asked through his teeth.

Philippe wrapped his hands around Erik's neck and forced him back, matching Erik's brute strength. They stared at one another, both of them standing rigid, ready to engage in hand-to-hand combat. Nothing would please Erik more than being given the opportunity to release his anger upon Sophia's brother. They had encountered each other enough to mutually understand that they were not friends.

"Sophia was supposed to retire for the night, Monsieur, but if I recall correctly the last I saw of her she was returning to the Manor to see you," he said snidely.

Erik began to reach for Philippe's neck, but Philippe swatted his hands away and pushed off the wall, storming across the foyer. "Keep your damned hands off me," Philippe said, glancing around the room. "You employ me and Sophia, you don't own us, you idiot."

Taking a step back, Erik ignored Philippe's words, thinking he would be useless if he was dead. "Where is he taking her?"

"Who?"

Anger snapped Erik forward, his hand raised in a threatening fist. "You known damned well who I'm talking about. Where is Turro?"

Philippe exhaled hard, voicing his aggravation with a grunt. "Monsieur Turro returned home hours ago. I have no idea what the hell you're talking about, but if you ever attempt to hit me again I will have your head on a platter."

The door creaked open and both men turned to see Fidelio limping in, followed closely by Citrine, who was tying a rope into a knot.

"Pardon me, gentleman," Citrine said as she looped the rope around the dog's neck. "Dublin is very determined to follow you, Monsieur Belmont. I apologize."

Philippe kept his eyes purposely trained on Citrine as he said, "Please tell Sophia to return home at once. She doesn't earn enough in a week to spend her nights in that house."

"Monsieur Dupree," Citrine gasped. "Sophia isn't—"

Erik heard Citrine's shriek as he lunged forward and threw Philippe to the floor. The impact knocked the air from Philippe's lungs, and as he choked for air Erik grabbed him by the throat and held him down.

"She's gone. Now tell me where Karl Turro took her or I will snap your worthless neck."

-o-

The coach turned into the long, tree-lined drive just as Karl sat forward and ran his hand along Sophia's leg. He felt her recoil at his touch and smiled to himself. She was always so shy and reserved when they were alone, but he knew she was a brazen girl, one who spoke with a tongue more suitable for a man.

She was feral, Philippe had said, and somewhat spoiled by their father when he was still alive. Allowed to act like one of the boys, she had obtained quite the mouth.

Karl would reverse that once he had her in his home. In the end, Philippe would thank him for culling an uncontrollable young woman. Sophia had to learn her place.

"It saddens me that you wanted to spend the night alone rather than as my guest for dinner," Karl commented.

He could see his reflection in the glass. His hair, which was normally slicked back, had become mussed when he carried Sophia from the Manor. Leaning forward, he ran his palm over his hair and straightened it.

"I would like to go home," Sophia said meekly.

"Look out the window, my dear," Karl said, ignoring her plea. "The fields are empty, but I know your imagination runs rampant. Close your eyes and picture all the pretty horses grazing in the pastures. Can you see it, my love?"

Sophia stared out the window, her lips trembling and eyes wide and glassy. Such a naïve girl, he thought, so trusting of others. She was like a foal wandering with the rest of the horses, unaware that there was danger in the world until it was too late.

"We had six mares foal this spring. They're so spirited when they're young, Sophia, so carefree as they romp. Watching them reminds me of you," he continued.

She was watching him from the corner of her eye, he knew, but he wasn't certain how much she could see. Philippe swore that his sister's vision would not worsen, though when asked he could never explain his reasoning. As much as Philippe wanted Karl to believe otherwise, Sophia would not make a good wife. She was a cripple, an invalid who couldn't care for her children if they were married.

Karl looked at her and saw nothing but a play thing, a little wild filly who had denied him on far too many occasions.

"Next year I will break them," Karl said. "Do you know what that means, Sophia?" He waited a moment for her to answer before he squeezed her knee.

"It—it means you'll make them suitable for riding or leading a carriage – slaves to your whims."

He smiled grimly as he studied her. Karl knew she wasn't really watching the scenery. She was merely staring to ignore his presence, though she would not be able to ignore him for much longer.

"They are spirited, Sophia, wild and wily in the pastures now, but when the time comes I will take them by the bridle and whip if necessary and tame them. I will break them myself because they are mine for the time being. I will train them before they are bought by new masters."

He saw her shiver at his words and his smile widened. She gripped the seat cushion and swallowed hard, her eyes fluttering.

"Roasted lamb," Karl said in his deep, baritone voice. "With green beans, roasted potatoes, bread, and the finest Dupree wine. Chocolate mousse for dessert and an evening by the fire. How does that sound?"

"I'm very tired," Sophia said weakly. She kept her gaze fixed on the blur of trees and darkness. "Please take me home, Monsieur. I want to go to sleep."

"With that thing?" Karl spit. "That masked beast?"

Sophia pressed her cheek to the window and gripped her skirts, ignoring his words.

"What do you know of him, Sophia? Can he please a woman?"

Her eyes slowly closed, her body rocking back and forth in time with the carriage.

"He has a half a face, Mademoiselle. May I ask what else the man is missing? Answer me, you insolent little brat, for I know you've spent many hours alone in his company. In his bedchamber."

"I don't," Sophia whispered.

Karl grabbed her by the wrist and wrenched her forward. "Men know, Sophia. They know when a woman's virtues have been compromised."

To his surprise, she pulled free and buried her face in her hands. "I want to go home," she whimpered.

Karl sat back and watched her until the carriage rolled to a stop. He could taste the fight in her, the willingness she possessed to stay wild.

She would be his conquest, the first mare waiting to be tamed.


	32. In Exchange for Dupree

Paladin 32

"What do you mean he took her?" Philippe asked as he crossed his arms.

"He took her from my home and put her in his carriage."

Philippe glanced from Erik to the clock over the mantle. His brow furrowed and he shook his head. "It's almost eleven o'clock, Monsieur. There must be some mistake. Monsieur Turro would not ask Sophia to such a late supper."

"Then why would he invite her so late?" Erik muttered.

Aggravated, Erik turned on his heel and stormed past Citrine, who was struggling to hold back Fidelio. The dog whined and barked when Erik walked back, attempting to gain his master's attention.

The snow had nearly stopped when he walked outside and the clouds had parted enough to reveal a full moon, but the wind had picked up. Snow was drifting against the buildings and trees, which was making it increasingly difficult to walk across the yard.

In the silver light he saw Gabe leading two black horses from the stable, both saddled and prepared to ride.

"Where is Monsieur Dupree?" Gabe yelled over the wind.

Erik ignored the young man's question and studied the two horses for a moment, deciding almost immediately to take the bigger of the two. Once he had Sophia back he would need a horse with enough strength to carry two riders as he had no intention of leaving Turro's home empty-handed.

"Monsieur?" Gabe questioned again.

"Where does Turro live?" Erik asked, gathering the reigns in his gloved hands. The horse that Gabe controlled began shaking its head back and forth as it protested against the weather.

Gabe glanced down the long drive. "West of here, Monsieur," he said, stroking the smaller horse's muzzle and averting his eyes from Erik. "If you wish I will show you the way."

Erik studied the young groomsman. He was younger than Erik expected, but he was fairly tall and well-built and he could see why Citrine was fond of him. He didn't look much like his father, but their voices were similar; gravely and low. Without seeing either of them they sounded callous, but Gabe at least seemed friendlier. With a sweep of his hand or a pat to the side of the neck he was able to calm the more skittish horse. From the little time he spent in the stables Erik knew some men would have rather whipped a horse rather than attempting to calm the beast.

"How far west?"

Gabe shrugged, running the toe of his shoe back and forth through the snow. "Several miles, I believe. He owns a large stable, Monsieur. You may have heard of Turro Thoroughbreds; they're quite popular, though my father purchased his team elsewhere," he added quickly.

"The property should be discernable by its fields and stables then."

"True, Monsieur." Gabe appeared nervous, shifting his weight as he continued to stroke the horse's face. He had yet to look Erik in the eye, which was just as well. "But I think it would be best if you had Monsieur Dupree accompany you. He knows the way, as do I."

Erik ignored the offer. He didn't want anything to do with Philippe and he didn't want Gabe involved. "Is there a gate? Something unique about the property?"

"An iron gate, Monsieur. With two horses running toward one another and his name on a plaque near the entrance. From the road you can't see the estate; too many trees from what I recall. It's very easy to miss, especially in this weather, and the only indication that you've gone too far would be Dupree Vineyards." He looked up for the first time but wasn't staring at Erik's eyes.

In his fleeting anger, the last thing Erik wanted to consider was Gabe's words, but he saw the horsemaster's son staring at his mask and knew what the young man was thinking. No one would allow him onto Turro's property.

But Erik wasn't exactly planning a civil meeting between gentlemen. He was traveling to Turro's horse farm for Sophia and nothing more. If Monsieur Turro dared to protest he would learn again never to ignite Erik's anger.

"If I may ask, Monsieur, what did Monsieur Dupree say when you told him Sophia was missing?"

"Stay here and take care of Citrine," Erik ordered, wrapping his hand around the pommel.

Before he had mounted the horse, Philippe jogged to them, out of breath, newly dressed in his evening wear. He snatched the reins from Gabe's hands and glared at Erik.

"Monsieur," Gabe greeted him.

"Where is Sophia? With Citrine in the kitchen?" Philippe asked.

Gabe shook his head. "Monsieur Turro—"

Philippe swore under his breath and glanced from Philippe to Erik. "How long ago did he take her?" he asked as he swung into the saddle.

Erik offered no reply. Turning his mount, he heeled his horse and barreled down the drive in search of Sophia and the brazen man who had stolen her from his home.

-o-

Sophia had no recollection of entering Karl Turro's estate. All she remembered was that she had passed from a warm place into a colder one and then into a wide room with a marble floor and a fireplace.

Her mind faded as Karl removed the cloak he had set over her shoulders and allowed it to fall to the floor. He ran his hands up and down her arms and told her she was shaking and that he would warm her, but his touch had been painful. She wanted him to stop at once and she thought she had asked him again to take her home, but whether she had actually spoken or he chose to ignore her she wasn't certain. His hands squeezed her shoulders and she felt her knees weaken.

His mood had softened after he brought her into his home, but she still felt uneasy in his presence.

"You've no reason to fear me," he said into her ear. "Please, dine with me, Mademoiselle. Relax and enjoy your stay."

There were no servants or family members to greet them and she saw no lamps or candles burning once they started down the hall. Shrouded in darkness, she listened for some indication that they weren't alone, as she felt safer knowing his mother or father were present.

Tall windows to the left revealed an empty garden, and the snow outside made the moonlight brighter. Sophia strained to see in the darkness, cursing her bad eye for betraying her as she looked to find a door or more people somewhere in the house. She had met Monsieur and Madame Turro on several occasions. If she could tell them she was sleepy they would most certainly tell Karl to take her home.

"Your hands," he said as he led her down a long corridor toward the back of the estate, "they're so cold. Have you ever heard the expression 'cold hands, warm heart?' I think it's certainly fitting."

Sophia said nothing. She wondered if anyone knew she was missing. Perhaps Erik had noticed that she wasn't in the parlor, or maybe Philippe looked at the late hour and searched for her. Citrine would have noticed. Citrine seemed to notice everything.

Had Erik gone to the parlor? Was that what she had told him when she left his room? It felt like ages had passed since she had last seen anyone at all.

Sophia felt herself sway slightly, her body pulling away from Karl's hand, which was caressing her arm.

"What are you so afraid of, Sophia? We've known each other for years and I've never put you in danger."

She couldn't speak, couldn't see anything around her. It felt like she was walking into an abyss, a stifling and terrible space without end and without solace.

"You said you would kill me," she murmured at last, finally able to speak.

Karl chuckled to himself and drew her nearer again, holding her securely to his side. "It was merely in jest, Sophia. You mustn't take my words so seriously, my dear."

They came to a stop and Karl took Sophia by the shoulders, his hands gripping her so tightly that she sucked in a breath through her teeth to signal her pain.

"Your brother wants the best for you," Karl said as his hands slowly moved from her shoulders up to her neck. "A good future, a good, solid, financial future for his dear baby sister."

His hands clasped her face, holding her head steady as he examined her closely. Sophia swallowed hard and attempted to hold her breath, as the hall suddenly seemed unbearably warm and confining.

"Did you know your uncles owe me a great deal of money, Sophia?" he asked as he smoothed his thumb over her chin. "Your uncle Claude apparently enjoys watching horses run much more than his wallet can tolerate."

Sophia felt the wall against her back. She released a barely audible whimper of protest before her eyes rolled back and her heart stuttered in fear. He was breathing so hard against her face and his touch was so heavy and insistent that she thought he would bruise her face.

"They are indebted to me, my dear, and as a result your family's vineyards will be mine come spring. You're quite fortunate your brother takes no interest in horses. There's no telling what he may have to relinquish as payment for his debts."

Karl leaned into her, pinning her to the wall with his torso. She turned her face away, but he had such a tight hold on her chin that he forced her to look at him again.

"Your brother needs the vineyards back. It kills him each day he works for that _thing_ while your uncles sit around and watch the crops go to waste. I don't blame him. I don't see how you could work for a man who hides behind a mask, Sophia. "But imagine how wonderful it would be for Philippe if he worked for himself once more. Wouldn't you like that?"

He pushed against her harder, so hard that Sophia could barely breathe.

"You don't want to ruin his chances of running the old vineyard, do you?"

And suddenly both of his hands weren't holding her face any longer. One had snaked around her back and had begun unlacing her dress. The other, however, remained against her chin, and the last thing Sophia saw was Karl's mouth open. Before his lips closed in on hers she let out a scream and tried to turn away.


	33. Down Once More

Paladin 33

Erik tied his horse to the fence near the front of the estate and wasted no time waiting for a groomsman to come and take the animal to the stable. By all appearances the estate was abandoned, as there was no sign of anyone and there were no lights in any of the windows.

The only indication that anyone had been to Turro Equine Farm was the tracks from the carriage wheels, which were nearly buried beneath the snow. He studied them for a moment, hearing horse hooves pound the frozen earth behind him. He didn't need to glance back to know Philippe Dupree had followed him.

Nostrils flared, Erik stormed toward the front door, intending to break it down if need be.

"Wait!" Philippe shouted.

Erik ignored him and reached for the doorknocker, but Philippe grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him back.

"I said wait," Philippe growled through his teeth.

Fueled by anger, Erik shoved Philippe away, while at the same time stalking toward Sophia's brother who slid on ice and fell backwards onto the snow-covered grass.

"Never lay your hand on me. So much as attempt to do so again and I will kill you," Erik seethed, towering over him. He considered kicking Philippe in the chest but held back, knowing there were more important endeavors at hand.

Philippe scrambled to his feet and looked down his nose at Erik. "She's my sister! You have no right to be here!"

"I have every right!" Erik replied, biting off his words.

The only face-to-face confrontation Erik had experienced in recent years had been with Raoul de Chagny, and though Philippe had different interests in Sophia than Raoul had with Christine, he still considered Philippe a threat.

Philippe rolled his eyes. "Because you employ her? Because you teach her?"

"Because I care for her," Erik replied. Because I love her, he thought to himself. Because I can't bear the thought of losing her.

"Care? You don't care," Philippe said with a humorless chuckle. "You're a man with power, yes, but you're not above needs, physical, primal, lecherous needs. Do you think that mask hides your true intentions?" He nodded toward Erik, his eyes narrowed and lips frowning in a bloodthirsty scowl that left Erik speechless.

Not since he had been a fearful child had anyone dared to insult him or insinuate anything about him to his face.

Philippe kept his eyes trained on Erik. "I know what men such as you want with girls—innocent, trusting girls—like my little sister."

Erik reached for Philippe's throat, but Philippe brushed his hand away and ran his chest into Erik's, daring him to continue with the challenge.

"What do you take me for, Monsieur Belmont? Do you think it's a secret, some sort of trick up your sleeve? Men only want one thing when they keep a girl inside their private quarters or lock them up in the parlor. It's the same thing I always wanted when there was a pretty little thing serving at my parents' vineyard. I know all about being the master of the estate, but if you've done anything to compromise my sister's good name I swear—"

"Shut up," Erik hissed, this time reaching for and taking hold of Philippe's shirt collar. "You know nothing about me."

"I know more than you think."

They glared at each other a moment, both of them standing rigid with their hands balled into fists, ready for battle. Philippe shook his head just enough for Erik to notice before he hit Erik in the forearm and turned away.

"You've picked a fine time to show you care about her," Erik said under his breath.

"I have always taken care of Sophia, Monsieur," Philippe muttered, walking away from the front door. He shot Erik an angry glance before he disappeared around the side of the building. "You've known her for what? Only a few months? Ah, but of course you suddenly care for her, and far more than I ever have? You ignorant fool!"

There was no other choice but to follow Philippe around to the side of the estate where its brick exterior was covered with dead ivy. Philippe walked up to the first window and pushed on it, but it was locked. He glanced back at Erik who, in turn, was staring back at him, a murderous look in his pale green eyes.

Erik walked past him to the next window and did as Philippe had done, walking away with the same result.

"As far as I'm concerned, you're wasting your time," Erik muttered as he walked toward the front of the house again.

The moment he turned away from Philippe, Erik felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun around, his arm raised and hand clenched into a fist again.

"If you truly care for her then you'll shut your damned mouth and follow me," Philippe said before he turned away and rounded the corner of the house, heading to the back yard of Karl Turro's property.

-o-

Philippe was livid as he walked away from Erik. No one would step into Sophia's life and assume that they knew what was best for her, especially not some reclusive musician who would seduce her with his violin or his piano or whatever else he decided to use.

More than anything, Philippe was tired of people telling him he didn't know what to do on his sister's behalf. Each time he saw his two uncles he was met with a dismaying shake of their heads and sullen expressions.

"That poor girl," they would murmur to one another. "What kind of life will she live?"

_A damned good one_, Philippe thought to himself. He wanted a home for her with people to watch over her the way their mother had enjoyed. He wanted Sophia to spend her days entertaining her lady friends or enjoying a view of the pastures as she sewed in a comfortable wing chair. Even though he knew that her vision was failing, he had hope that she would keep her sight for a few more years so that she could still enjoy watching flowers bloom in the spring and the foals grow over the summer.

Philippe exhaled hard as he reached the back of the and tried another window, another perfect, picturesque window he had wanted Sophia to be able to look out of after she and Karl were married. His anger escalated, the dreams he had for his sister slowly becoming intangible.

This wasn't the way he had imagined things. He wanted her to have a proper courtship and wedding, one Sophia would remember fondly for the rest of her days. The only thing he now knew for certain was that he didn't want her anywhere near Karl Turro. No man would compromise her safety and well-being.

Philippe swallowed hard, sensing Erik Belmont close behind him.

"Stand back," he said without looking at his employer.

"Why?"

"I'm breaking the door down," Philippe said as he took off his cloak and began unbuttoning his overcoat. "I'm getting my sister."

Erik sidled up beside Philippe and looked the door up and down. "And alerting him of your arrival? By the time you break down the door he could hide her anywhere."

Philippe pursed his lips. "What do you suggest?"

"Follow me," Erik replied as he walked away.

"Where are you going?"

Erik glanced over his shoulder. "To the cellar."


	34. A Lecherous Man

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Karl Turro locked Sophia's hands at her sides and pinned her to the wall, whispering in her ear as she turned her head to the side and wriggled in vain, her stamina waning. It was too difficult to unlace the back of her dress while she flailed around, and he had no intention of merely lifting her skirts. He wanted her and he wanted all of her.

"What a privileged wife you will be," he growled. "Servants to care for your every whim. What dreams your brother has for your life."

"Please take me home," Sophia begged again. "It's not too late. He might not yet realize that I'm gone."

"But we haven't yet had dinner, Sophia," Karl chuckled as he wrenched her hands behind her back. "Or danced. Dance with me Sophia. Entertain me a while."

Sophia stumbled over her own feet as he yanked her away from the wall and forced her around in a circle. She lost her balance as he whipped her around, and as she stumbled he released her and allowed her to slide across the floor on her knees.

"Now, now, Sophia, this will never do. Let me teach you," he said as he stood over her and offered her hand, a wicked smile across his face.

-o-

Erik's fingers were stiff and painful from the cold once he found the cellar door and tugged on the rusted lock and chain. He could hear Philippe breathing hard as he stood over him and watched.

"It's only opening a few inches. I need something to break the lock," Erik said over his shoulder.

"Such as?"

"Such as something to break the lock," he replied through his teeth. Catching himself before his anger escalated, he rose to his feet and surveyed the surroundings.

"What if we pried it open?" Philippe asked as he kicked his feet together.

"With what?" Erik asked.

"There's some tree branches."

"It's too cold. They would crack."

Philippe considered Erik's words and exhaled, throwing his hands over his head. "Then what do you suggest?"

Erik kicked at the lock twice before he walked away in silence, his heart racing. Sweat beaded on his forehead, which made his mask uncomfortable. With his back turned to Philippe, he lifted the mask and ran the back of his hand over his cheek and forehead, exhaling hard in frustration as he attempted to think of another plan. Each moment they wasted was another second Sophia was in danger.

It killed him that he had allowed her to leave his room. There were so many things that he could do have done differently, could have said differently to her. He didn't know what Karl wanted with Sophia, though he guessed it was something lecherous.

"Here," Philippe said. "Kicking it splintered the wood. You grab one side and I'll grab the other. It should break easy in the cold, don't you think?"

"I have no idea," Erik muttered as he turned and crouched beside Philippe, flexing his hands to encourage blood flow. He grabbed his side of the cellar door and waited for Philippe to take hold.

"Ready?" Philippe asked, taking his position.

"Yes, I—"

Both men paused, hearing a scream come from inside the house. Without a word to one another, they both began violently pulling at the broken door, knowing their time was slowly running out.

-o-

Sophia screamed as Karl yanked her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her, squeezing the air from her lungs. She began struggling again, clawing at his chest, her feet kicking wildly as he held her off the ground.

She continued to scream until her back hit the wall and he covered her mouth and nose with his hand.

"Quiet now," he said, his voice low and calm. "There's no need to put up a fuss, Sophia."

His thigh was wedged between her legs, which frightened her so terribly that she thought she would faint. His words gave her a glimmer of hope. Perhaps he feared that she would wake or alert to someone. She needed to continue to fight until she could free herself and run screaming down the hall.

"You frighten me, Monsieur Turro," she said softly.

Tears threatened her eyes as she felt him run his hand up and down her spine, his fingers tugging at the laces. His rough face scraped past her neck as he breathed heavily on her flesh.

"Why is that, my dearest? I have known you since you were a little girl. I watched you grow, my sweet, blossom into a young woman." His hand rested below her breast, fingers splayed and searching.

"No, don't," she begged, her body limp as a rag doll.

His hand pulled away, giving Sophia hope that he would leave her alone and either take her home or at least release her long enough for her to gain distance from him. Instead, he began tugging harder on her dress. He tugged so hard that he began shaking her back and forth.

"You'll tear it," she muttered under her breath. "Please don't tear my dress."

"That is the point, my dear."

He whipped her backwards again, and Sophia used the momentum to tip back on her heels, which knocked Karl off balance. He stumbled forward, losing his grip on her just long enough for Sophia to scream again as she crawled away on her hands and knees.

The room spun around her, and before she realized what had happened she heard a crack and felt a sting across her cheek. Stunned, she stared wide-eyed at the face above hers.

"Now," Karl said as he sat hard on her hips. "I have warned you once to cease screaming."

He pinned her arms beside her head and grit his teeth, his nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down, his eyes settling on her heaving chest.

"My how you've grown into such a lovely thing over the years, Sophia," Karl said as he gripped her wrists tighter. "My, my, my, how you've become a woman before my very eyes. You would make your mother very proud."

She turned her face as his face neared hers, her eyes pressing shut.

"You've hardly said a word this entire evening and that's quite unlike you. Why don't we chat a while?"

"Let me go," Sophia said meekly, her throat closing on her.

Karl shook his head and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He leaned back and took a small knife from beneath his pant leg and showed it to her. "I swear I won't hurt you with this knife, child, but please understand that you brought this upon yourself tonight. You're not being very sociable, my little dove. How can you expect to earn a place in my house when you won't speak to me?"

Tears streamed down Sophia's face, her body going numb as she felt the top of her dress being sawed through.

"I know you've been a very good girl and that you have no idea what men feel when they're in the company of women such as yourself. Unfortunately, a man can only be a gentleman for so long, and I've been a gentleman long enough. Now, I can assure you that there will be discomfort, but hold still. If you scream, I will stop you by whatever means necessary."

And with his words, Sophia broke down in tears before Karl slapped her again.

-o-

Philippe, who was smaller than Erik, slipped through the broken door first and landed nimbly onto the stone floor. With the moonlight above, the dank cellar wasn't well-lit, but over the years Erik had grown accustomed to seeing in low light and he could see Philippe standing in the shadows.

"Careful," he called up. "There's a bit of a drop."

Erik landed beside him on the floor and glanced around, separating objects in the cellar from the darkness. He was the first to move, finding his way easily past furniture that had found its way to the confines beneath the house as well as bins that smelled of onions and potatoes.

"Do you know your way through here?" Erik asked over his shoulder. He could see Philippe doing his best to keep up in the darkness as he felt his way along, kicking rubbish and cursing all the way.

"There's stairs and a door up ahead, which leads into the kitchen."

"And where is Turro's bedroom from there?" Erik asked.

Philippe exhaled and muttered something under his breath as he came up alongside Erik, who had found the bannister. "If he's done anything to my sister I'll kill him."


	35. Confronting Turro

Sorry about the delay! Thanks to MadLizzy for her beta skills and to the rest of you who previewed and who always make my day!

Paladin35

Karl finally relented once Sophia refused to put up a fight. She trembled, her hands clasped over the left side of her face, shielding her bad eye from harm. Her good eye was starting to swell and her lip throbbed where his hand had hit her repeatedly. Her cheek had gone numb, her ear ringing from his vicious strikes.

"You exhaust me, girl," Karl said, wiping the back of his hand over his face. "If you didn't insist on fighting there would be no need for me to treat you this way. What sort of wife will you make, hmm? You must obey your husband. Let this be a lesson to you that…"

Karl's voice trailed away. Past her shallow breathing, Sophia heard the cellar door rattle before it opened. She heard Karl swear under his breath before he replaced the knife he had used to cut her dress. He rose, grumbling to himself before he yanked Sophia to her feet.

She groaned as he pulled her by the arm, her feet dragging along the floor. "Don't hurt me," she begged, feeling warmth growing on her lower lip. Licking it away, she tasted the salt of her own blood and felt a surge of panic reverberate through her. "I want to see my brother. Please, Monsieur Turro, I want to see my brother."

"Quiet now," he said in her ear, tugging her dress back into place. He pressed her firmly to his side to support her weight. "We have company, my dearest."

Sophia's head rolled back, her body limp and growing heavier as she was consumed by her fears. "Erik," she whispered. "Please."

-0-

They stormed through the corridor, silent as shadows, passing the kitchen and a storage room. Erik claimed the right side of the hall and Philippe took the left, his eyes trained straight ahead. They had nothing to arm themselves, but Philippe assured Erik that Karl was not the type of man who carried weapons like some sort of barbarian. There was no time to argue, though Erik attempted to play out scenarios in his mind as to what would happen if Karl were in fact armed.

Being no stranger to weaponry, Erik assumed Karl would arm himself with a pistol, which gave him distance. Any man cowardly enough to abduct a young woman from her home would not have the courage to fight hand-to-hand, he thought wryly.

"Who's there?" Karl called out, his voice echoing down the hall.

Erik looked to Philippe, who silently nodded, asking for permission to voice his presence. Erik nodded back and slowed his pace, allowing Philippe to walk ahead of him.

Philippe rounded the corner, his back to Erik as he approached Karl. "Where is…Sophia, come here now."

"Monsieur Dupree? What are you doing here? We didn't hear you ring the doorbell from the dining room. Something must be wrong with it, I assure you. Would you like something to eat?"

"Sophia. Now," Philippe said. His posture changed, his voice matching his aggravated stance.

"I will take her home, Philippe. You have no need to worry."

Philippe moved forward and Erik did the same, keeping himself in shadows but moving far enough ahead to see Karl standing in the middle of the hall. Sophia's head was tipped forward and her legs bent, indicating that she was either unable to stand or was unwilling to do so.

"You have no right to come to my home and take her away without my permission."

Karl chuckled to himself. "We had an agreement, Philippe. There is no need to be angry over this…misunderstanding. These things sometimes happen, as I'm sure you're aware. I merely wanted Sophia to keep her promise and join me for a nice evening."

"Sophia," Philippe tried again, ignoring Karl's words.

Erik's heart raced, anger escalating as his gaze switched from Karl to Philippe. More than anything, Erik wanted to kill Karl, and as he stared at Philippe he didn't know what he was waiting for. If it had been his choice he would have stalked over and taken Sophia at once rather than waste time on arguing with an ignorant man.

"Sophia, I said come here," Philippe said as he stepped forward.

"I will take her home," Karl said as he gripped Sophia tighter, jerking her body and forcing her head to fall forward again. "As you can see, she's not feeling well this evening. It pains me to inform you that she had a bit of an accident following dinner and I was just about to call my driver and escort her home at once."

Sophia's head slowly raised and Erik saw her long hair sticking to her swollen lower lip. Her eyes slit open and she murmured something Erik couldn't hear. Without another moment of hesitation he came forward and stood beside Philippe.

"You're not welcomed on my property," Erik seethed, his eyes boring through Karl. "Never step foot on my land again."

Karl's eyes widened at the sight of Erik, but he gave an easy smile. "What is this, Philippe? Don't you trust me, my friend?"

Philippe's arm reached out and snatched Sophia from Karl's grasp, cradling her in his arms like a child as he walked backwards. Almost instantly she began to struggle against her brother's grasp, her head tossing from side to side as she begged him to put her down. He hushed her, and the sound of his familiar voice seemed to put her at ease.

"You do not come near her without my permission," Philippe said as he turned away, allowing Erik a clear view of Sophia. "And I assure you, Monsieur Turro, you will never be granted my permission again. How dare you ever..."

"I want to go home," Sophia said as her fist wrapped around her brother's lapel and buried her face against his shoulder. "Please take me home now."

Philippe looked from Sophia to Erik, the sorrow in his eyes clearly evident. Erik flexed his hands, wanting to be closer to Sophia but not knowing how to intervene without engaging himself in an argument.

With a ragged sigh, Philippe nodded to his sister. "I will never allow you from my sight again," he said softly. "Rest yourself. You're safe now."

Karl cleared his voice, and when Erik turned he saw Turro standing with his hands behind his back and a smug expression on his face. "I do hope you will reconsider, Monsieur, as I would simply hate to find another manager for my winery."

"You can go to hell," Philippe growled before he stormed toward the front of the house with Erik silently at his side.

As he watched the interaction between brother and sister, Erik couldn't help but feel that he had done little to protect Sophia and even less to prove his own good intentions. His pace slowed, his eyes cast down as he heard Sophia tell Philippe that she was frightened and didn't think he would come for her.

"I'm here now," Philippe assured her. "No one will harm you."

"And Monsieur Belmont?" Sophia questioned. "I thought I heard his voice. Where is he?"

"Yes, yes, he is here too."

Sophia lifted her head and looked over Philippe's shoulder, her hair still draped over her face as she stared somberly at Erik. She pushed her dark locks from her swollen face and frowned, looking almost apologetic.

"Mademoiselle," he whispered but he wasn't sure if she heard him. Philippe passed through the front door and Erik swiftly followed, but by the time he caught up to her and Philippe again she had turned back to her brother, who had just noticed the marks on her face.

"Did he hit you?" Philippe asked as he set her on her own two feet and brushed her hair back from her face.

Sophia lowered her eyes and kept her hand clasped over her dress. "I just want to return home."

"Did he hit you?" Philippe asked through his teeth.

Sophia hesitated a moment before she shook her head.

Philippe looked her up and down. "No? And your dress? What happened? It merely tore on its own accord?"

"I fell," she said softly.

"Fell?" he scoffed.

"Philippe, please take me home. I'm so tired."

"I'll take her," Erik said as he boldly stepped forward, his gaze trained on Philippe. "My horse can better accommodate two riders."

Philippe stared at Erik a moment before he shook his head. Sophia turned away from both of them, her face covered by her hands as she began to sob.

"I don't believe that is a wise decision tonight, Monsieur," Philippe said, breaking eye contact as Sophia began to sway. He helped her into the saddle, gave her his cloak and took the reins in his hand. "Thank you, Monsieur," he mumbled as he turned his horse.

The cold tore through Erik's silent form, his mind reeling back to the day Raoul de Chagny had spirited Christine away. Teeth chattering, he stood and stared, unsure of what had happened.

"I did things right," he murmured to himself. He swallowed hard and stared at the tracks in the snow. "I wanted to save her."

His every intention had been good, his thoughts solely on keeping Sophia safe.

"I came for you," he said blankly. "I came to rescue you."

His hands began to tremble, his legs feeling leaden as he stared at the drifting snow. His chest ached, his throat constricting as Philippe and Sophia disappeared from view. He felt lost, uncertain of where he should go or what he should do.

This wasn't the way the night was supposed to end. Sophia was supposed to be at his side, on his horse, in his arms. He was supposed to escort her home and comfort her. He was supposed to assure her that no harm would come to her, that she was safe in his company.

But again he stood in the snow as alone as he had always been, feeling emptier than he could ever recall—even more so than the day Christine had left her with her lover. This was supposed to be different. This was supposed to be perfect.

"I came for you," he whispered again, his eyes growing warm, the road disappearing from his clouded sight. He felt his stomach churning, his body doubling over in agony. He hurt physically now that she was gone, now that the woman he cared for—genuinely cared for—was gone.

"Sophia, I came for you," he said, his voice trembling as the wind whipped around him.

Erik wandered around the driveway, his feet shuffling toward his waiting horse as he attempted to sort out the night and pinpoint where he had gone wrong.

Why couldn't he do this? Why couldn't he earn her trust, her compassion? Why had he failed her?

His hand absently reached up, his gloved hand touching his mask. His eyes closed, attempting to contain the tears pooling, threatening to release. Just as he feared, emotion could not be denied, and as he untied his horse and swung into the saddle, he paid no heed to the tears streaming down his face.

She was gone and there was nothing he could do. He had failed her long before this night, long before he had ever met her. He had failed at birth, at the first breath he had taken, the first inhale of a terrible, loathsome monster that should never have survived past that first night.

From the corner of his eye Erik could see the gates and knew he was near the main road. He loosened the reins, having no idea which direction the Manor was located and caring less if he returned or not. He considered dismounting and releasing the horse, assuming the animal would find its way back to the stable.

He could barely breathe once the horse reached the road. "Home," he said, his voice trembling as he pulled back on the reins and dismounted. His hand ran down the horse's sleek black neck. "Go home to Gabe."

Erik wiped at his eyes, finding the moisture beneath his mask mixed with the cold wind made his skin sting. Soon he expected to feel nothing at all, which seemed a world better than what he felt now.

With the reins tied to the pommel he prepared to slap the horse and send him on his way, but before he raised his hand he heard a horse snort up the road. Lowering his eyes, he waited for the rider to pass him. The last thing he wanted was for a stranger to approach him and ask if they could offer their assistance.

The passing horse and rider stopped before him and he lifted his eyes, finding the rider staring down at him from beneath a black cloak. Without a word Erik glanced away, unsure of whether or not he should simply walk away or if he should mount his horse and wait until he was a distance away from the stranger.

"Good evening," he muttered before he pulled on the reins, his eyes trained on the road ahead and the cold that would claim him.

"Don't leave me," the rider said.

Erik froze, his mind almost certain that his ears had betrayed him. He turned on his heel and saw Sophia lower the hood from her head, revealing her bruised, tear-streaked face.

"I won't," he mumbled as he took her extended hand and helped her from the saddle.


	36. The Carriage Ride Home

Paladin 36

Erik stared at their joined hands for a moment, snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes as her grip tightened.

She had looked so frightened when their eyes had first met, but now that she stood before him she appeared calmer, relieved.

"Mademoiselle," he whispered.

Sophia nodded. "The Manor is the other direction, Monsieur."

Erik wasn't certain why, but he felt ashamed of himself for wanting to wander away. He looked away from her for a moment, his insides churning. It was impossible, he thought. Surely this must have been a mistake. She had returned to him of her own accord. His green eyes fixed on her again, his heart beating wildly as he was almost certain she would disappear, lost to the snow and his own memory.

But Sophia was still there, still standing with her hand in his and a weak smile on her face.

"Your brother will worry," he said softly. "If you're out of his sight…"

"He's watching," she said, glancing over his shoulder.

Erik looked over her shoulder and saw Philippe standing just within eyesight, arms wrapped tightly around his midsection as he stood near a tree, which was breaking the vicious, bitter wind.

"Monsieur," Sophia said suddenly, taking a step toward him. Her teeth were chattering, and Erik wasn't sure if it was from nerves or the freezing temperature, but he assumed that with her face, neck and hands exposed she was cold.

Releasing her hands, he unclasped his cloak and draped it over her shoulders.

"No, Monsieur, don't," Sophia said. "You'll freeze."

"I'm well accustomed to the cold," he replied as he handed her his gloves. The wind cut through him, and even though he would never take his warm garments from her, he knew that he would be feverish the following day. It didn't matter if he spent a week ill. He would do anything for her, anything at all to prove how much he cared for her.

Sophia shook her head. "Your lips are turning blue already," she said. "Please, it's freezing. You and my brother both will die from cold."

"Keep it," he said, his words more forceful than he had intended. He looked into her eyes and saw a tear slipping to her cheek, which was red from the cold. A bruise beneath her eye was turning her skin dark blue, and it angered him to think Turro had hit her.

"Did he?"

Sophia pursed her lips before the pain from the swelling made her grimace. She cast her eyes downward and pressed them shut, lips trembling before she forced herself to stop.

Without a second thought Erik brushed the tear away with his index finger and looked away from her. "So that you don't freeze," he muttered.

Sophia took a deep breath. "I would like to return home now," she said softly.

When Erik glanced at her again he saw her eyes fixed on the iron gates leading to Turro's home. She looked petrified, her face taut and eyes wide.

Erik placed his hand on her shoulder and cautiously grasped her, afraid of hurting or frightening her. She became rigid at his touch, but she didn't pull away, and once he was certain she trusted him enough he held her arm and turned her away from the estate.

She was shaking as they walked away, her body pressed against his side, providing him more warmth than she realized. Neither of them spoke; merely walked together, his hand still against her arm, numb from the wind and snow lashing against his exposed skin.

"Why, Monsieur?" Sophia asked before they reached Philippe, whose dark hair was now dusted with snow. He turned and began walking, barely glancing at either of them as they approached.

"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle?"

"Why did you come for me?" she whispered, watching him from the corner of her good eye.

His hand left her arm and touched the back of her head, his fingers lost in her thick hair. He studied the side of her face as they walked and saw a shy smile cross her lips as her gaze lowered, black lashes covering her eyes.

There should not have been bruises on her face. Sophia should have been safe and warm in her own home. Their evening should have been spent with her rehearsing at the piano and him listening to her play.

"Because," Erik replied softly, not knowing what else to say. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, but nothing seemed appropriate at this moment. 

Erik was tired of doing everything wrong, of the things he wanted slipping from his grasp. As he looked at Sophia he realized his feelings for her, the emotions that couldn't be denied. She was bold, frustrating, maddening, yet kind and respectful. She was unafraid when he was near her, and she treated him in ways no one else had treated him.

She made him feel ordinary, which had always been an intangible dream. She made him feel as though he were not a monster, not a loathsome, terrible creature. When she looked at him he felt like nothing more than a man, one who could live in the world without the fear of being seen.

With a deep breath he mustered up his nerve and started to close his eyes, intending to kiss the side of her head. He wanted to show her how he felt.

Just as he leaned in Sophia pulled away, her eyes widening as she stared ahead. "The carriage," she said, glancing at Erik. "It's Gabe and Citrine. Oh, thank God."

And just like that she was gone from his side again.

-o-

Citrine threw a blanket over Sophia the moment she entered the carriage. She started to question her friend, but Philippe said he wanted silence, and with a frown Citrine sat back and folded her arms.

"Where is Er…Monsieur Belmont?" Sophia asked Philippe. "He was right behind me."

Philippe didn't answer, but his frustration was clear by his tight-lipped expression. He started to rise, but they heard Gabe greeting Erik.

After several moments of waiting, the carriage door opened again, and with his eyes averted Erik took his seat beside Philippe and stared out the window as the coach pulled away. Philippe closed his eyes and rested his head against the window. Sophia stared at their employer for a while, her bruised eyes forlornly attempting to garner his attention, but his gaze was trained elsewhere. With a sigh Sophia snuggled in close to Citrine and closed her eyes, leaving only Erik awake.

"Your dog wanted to follow us," Citrine said as she stroked Sophia's hair. "Gabe had to tie him up in the kitchen so he couldn't get out."

"He should stay outside," Erik muttered.

Their conversation ended and no one said another word until the carriage pulled into the drive and Gabe opened the door.

Sophia and Philippe returned home immediately, but not before Philippe offered Erik a handshake and his sincere gratitude for "all he had done to assist Sophia." Erik appeared nonplussed, and though she tried not to stare, Citrine saw the pain in his eyes as he turned and walked into his own home. It was the same expression in Sophia's eyes as she walked inside and retired for the night.

"He hit her pretty good," Gabe commented as they stood outside alone. He shook his head. "Poor girl."

"She's fortunate," Citrine replied. "Provided nothing else happened to her."

Gabe made no reply. He scratched his forehead and sighed as he told Citrine to go inside before she froze to death. She bade him goodnight and turned toward her own home behind Sophia and Philippe's. Then she heard Fidelio bay at his master's return.

Cursing under her breath, Citrine scurried through the front door and into the kitchen, expecting to find Erik dragging Fidelio out by the scruff of his neck. She stopped herself in the doorway when she saw him crouched down beside the dog, who was wriggling all over in delight.

Erik had untied Fidelio from the stove and was holding the rope in one hand as he fed him scraps with the other. As quietly as she could, Citrine left the kitchen and snuck out the front door before she was noticed.

-o-

Sophia stood in the darkness and stared out her bedroom window, seeing Citrine wrap her cloak around herself and jog down the path toward the home she shared with one of the maids.

Philippe had said little once they were home, and as he placed logs onto the fire she asked him if he was upset.

"With myself," he answered weakly.

She lingered for a while and hoped he would face her, but after a few moments she heard him sniffle. He waved her away, which made Sophia's heart sink. With her head lowered she returned to her room and closed the door, bursting into tears before the door clicked into place.

An hour had passed since they had returned home, but Sophia was still too frightened to close her eyes. Each time she glanced at her bed she could still feel Karl holding her down. It made her sick to her stomach to think of him.

With her hands over her mouth she sobbed again, her forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window and Erik's cloak still draped over her shoulders. The glass fogged from her breath so she closed her eyes and wrapped her hands around her body, hugging herself in an embrace that gave her no comfort.

Eventually Sophia exhausted herself. She rubbed her eyes and took one final look at the still night. Her eyes were drawn to the Manor and the light in the upper window. A shadow lingered, another person awake and alone.

Sophia pressed her hand to the glass and sighed, feeling increasingly miserable. She wondered if he could see her staring out her window, unable to sleep.

His room went dark suddenly and he was gone. Sophia's eyes widened in the dark, her vision straining to locate him but he was gone.

She yawned and winced, her lip bleeding again. As quiet as a mouse she walked into the hall and looked for something to place on her bruises, but there was nothing. Everything was kept in the main house. As she stood in the kitchen she considered whether or not she should walk to the main house. The windows were dark, she reasoned, and he was possibly already asleep. Besides, she told herself, he wouldn't mind. If he said anything she would explain herself and hand him his cloak.

"He won't know I'm there," she whispered to herself as she walked out into the snow.


	37. Fever Confessions

Big hug to Lizzy for once again stepping in to be my beta. Love ya lots!

Paladin 37

Philippe sat at the end of his bed with his head in his hands. He lit no candles and left the lamp burning low, feeling no desire to bring light into his room. All he could think of was Sophia and the danger she had been put in because of him. He had never seen her more terrified than when they were riding away from Turro's estate.

"Where is Monsieur Belmont?" she had asked as they left the long driveway and entered the road. Her dark green eyes stared into his, her bleeding lip trembling.

"I have no idea."

"We can't leave him," Sophia had said, the fear in her eyes reflected in her voice. "We can't leave him behind, Philippe. We can't."

"You're my only responsibility," Philippe had told her. He wanted to tell her that he had failed once already and wouldn't allow her out of his sight again, but he couldn't bear to say the words. He didn't want to think about it a moment longer.

"Please, Philippe, please don't leave him," Sophia cried as she grasped his shirt sleeve. "It's not right of us."

Philippe couldn't refuse his sister. He gave her the horse and walked with her until he could see Monsieur Belmont.

With a heavy heart he allowed Sophia to meet with him, keeping his eyes on his sister while he remained a respectable distance away. He didn't know what was best for her and it aggravated him.

Before their mother died Philippe had promised her that he would take care of Sophia no matter what happened.

There were days when he had done more than just watch out for his sister. Philippe gave up his own meals so that she could eat. He worked odd jobs, sometimes going from one place during the day to another at night without food or rest so they could afford to live. Had it not been for their aunt in Paris they would have been living on the streets. She had arranged for their employment, writing to Philippe to tell him that she knew a very wealthy man in need of servants. Employed and able to put food on the table, Philippe knew the dangers they had faced should have been behind them. He also realized they would never regain the status they held before--their uncles had seen to that--but they would be comfortable.

"Not by my doing," he mumbled as he removed his shoes.

As much as he hated to admit it, Sophia was now safe because of their employer. Philippe wasn't angry because he had helped with her return home—he was grateful that Monsieur Belmont had saved Sophia and knew he would need to apologize for his brazen behavior. Regardless, Philippe was gravely disappointed in himself for not seeing Karl Turro's true nature.

-o-

Fidelio's tail drummed against the floor as Erik left his wet clothes in a pile on the floor. He was shivering as he shrugged into his robe and removed his mask for the night. His teeth were still chattering, but his face felt warm and he knew his fever had already started.

It made no difference whether he was ill or not. After all he had done he was alone again, facing the same mirror that reflected the same miserable man. Actions apparently could not change the face of the beast no matter how many mirrors he covered or shattered. Inside and out there would never be a difference that anyone could notice.

To prove him wrong, Fidelio whined and inched closer to his master, the bandage that was supposed to protect his injured paw dangling from his mouth. Erik sat on the edge of the bed and exhaled.

"Damn it, you stupid dog," he grumbled as he balled up the bandage and tossed it in the trash. It unraveled when he threw it, which only added to his anger. He glared at Fidelio, who bowed his head and slid down to lay on the floor.

Erik's hands were shaking, his legs wobbly as he stood. He stumbled when he reached his desk, suddenly much more exhausted than he first realized. With one hand on the desk he bent over and threw the bandage away, stars suddenly appearing before his eyes as he righted himself. Fidelio sat up, his ears raised and head turned to the side as he whined again, his tail still whipping back and forth.

"Die," Erik said under his breath as he returned to his bed and lay on top of the comforter. "No one will give a damn."

He closed his eyes, unsure of whether or not he was speaking to himself or to the dog that was resting his head close to Erik's face, licking away the tears that had escaped.

His ability to control his emotions had left him the moment he lay down and within heartbeats Erik was sobbing, one hand to his face while the other clung to the scruff of Fidelio's neck.

"How?" he asked, gasping for breath, his body feeling as though he were consumed in flames. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his back, and though there was no fire in the hearth Erik felt as though he were sitting in a coal furnace.

How had he failed? How had he ended up alone again? Solitude made him angry—angrier than he had been in a very long time. It had been over two decades since he had attempted to be part of society, two decades since he had decided to live alone rather than continue to face the cruelties of the world.

At first it had been a relief to live alone, but after several months he was bored. His mind was both the bane of his existence and his saving grace. He taught himself to read both music and the written word. He could hear an entire symphony played once and play it back note for note. The opera house provided few challenges, and each year that passed brought nothing to quell his ever-growing cynicism. He was in limbo, dead but still breathing.

And then he saw Christine and his words faded from memory, replaced by his hopes that time had changed his fate.

Eyes growing heavy, Erik quit fighting his exhaustion and sighed, feeling Fidelio's warmth on the bed beside him. The dog's long nails scraped against his face but he made no attempt to push him away. Erik was almost asleep when he heard a door open and close on the main floor.

"Turro," he growled as he dragged himself from bed.

-o-

Sophia jumped at the sound of the door shutting behind her as she walked into the kitchen. She waited for her good eye to adjust to the darkness before she moved. Citrine had a habit of moving the kitchen chairs and tables when she cleaned but not necessarily returning them to their original spots. The last thing Sophia wanted to do was wake Monsieur Belmont if he were sleeping—and judging by how dark his home was and the late hour she had no doubt he had retired for the night.

Sleep would not come to her, Sophia knew. With every step through the snow she had glanced over her shoulder, fearing Karl had followed them back to the manor. Each time she closed her eyes she saw him in her mind, the way he grit his teeth and squinted at her. She wished she had done more to fight him, but she recalled one of her mother's maids telling another girl that if it came between pain and death to choose pain.

A tear slipped down her cheek as she wondered whether or not Karl would have killed her. She couldn't allow him to kill her because then he and Philippe would no longer work together and Philippe's desires to run the vineyard would be forfeit. But now none of that mattered. Philippe would have nothing to do with Karl and the vineyard would be out of their hands—the Duprees' hands—forever.

Exhaling, Sophia wiped her eyes and felt her way through the kitchen, deciding she would leave Monsieur Belmont's cape in the parlor before she found something to clean her cuts and scrapes. She lit a candle and walked into the hall, wondering if Philippe was angry at her for what had happened. He had said so little on the way home, but she reminded herself that Philippe was normally quiet. He was like their father, a man who allowed his anger to build and build until it came out in one terrifying gush, like water from a breaking dam.

Months before they found employment Sophia had seen the frustration in her brother's dark green eyes. He was angered that he and Sophia had been asked to leave their home mere days after their father was buried. He was livid when the funds set aside for him and his sister were squandered and that there was nothing either of them could do, as their parents had never changed their wills to have their estate and money inherited by their children.

Too prideful to beg, he had taken everything upon himself, and even though they had food and shelter, she knew Philippe was unsatisfied. He would never grow accustomed to serving someone else, but in time she hoped he would be happier. She hated seeing Philippe so miserable.

Sophia had just made up her mind that she would confront Philippe when she heard the floor creak above her head. She froze, holding her breath as she stood in the parlor and debated whether or not she wanted Erik to know she was in his home. She wasn't sure if he was angry with her or not, as he hadn't said a word to her once they reached the carriage.

Draping his cape over the piano, she turned to leave the parlor and heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. Sophia knew he had heard her and smiled, hoping he would speak to her. She wanted to see him again, to thank him for coming after her.

"Monsieur…Erik," she corrected herself as she walked out the parlor door. She headed down the hall in time to hear a tremendous crash at the bottom of the stairs and Fidelio howling on the landing.

"Monsieur?" she called, her pace quickening. "Are you all right, Monsieur?"

Clinging to the railing, Erik continued down the stairs, holding his mask against his face. "Stay away from Sophia,"

he mumbled. He wore only trousers and a robe, which had slipped from his shoulder. "Don't you ever go near her again, do you hear me?"

"Monsieur, it's me," Sophia whispered as she warily approached.

His face glistened by the candlelight, his hair disheveled, plastered to his head. He didn't look at her, but she saw that his eyes were fever bright as he continued to mutter to himself.

"Monsieur?"

Erik looked at her suddenly and his rambling ceased. "I think he's in the house," he said, his breathing quick and shallow.

"It's only me, Monsieur," Sophia replied. She stopped several feet away from him and clasped her hands behind her back. "You look like you should return to bed."

The mask in his hand nearly slipped from his grasp and he turned away from her, his hands trembling, his teeth chattering. He rested his back against the wall and Fidelio began barking again, growling in his master's defense.

"Don't look at me," he whispered, shooing Sophia away.

"Let me help you upstairs," Sophia offered, reaching for his arm.

His eyes closed when she touched his bare arm and panic shot through her. He was hot to the touch, what she could see of his face beaded in sweat. Sophia had never seen someone come down ill so suddenly in her life. Her small hand squeezed his upper arm though she could do nothing to move him.

"You must lie down, Monsieur, you're very feverish. Come at once. Up the stairs."

"Return to your home," he said as he pressed his face against the wall. Sophia assumed the cool plaster felt good to his burning flesh. "Leave me."

"I won't leave you," she promised.

His eyes opened, red and weary. He swallowed hard before his eyes closed again. "Not yet," he said.

Sophia didn't know what to say, but she didn't want to argue with him.

"Return upstairs, Monsieur…Erik…and I promise I won't leave."

Erik didn't reply and Sophia wasn't sure if he had passed out or if he chose to ignore her offer. She shook him by the arm until his eyes opened.

"Why? Why do you offer such things?"

Sophia bit her lip. "Why did you come for me, Monsieur?" she whispered.

His eyes began to roll back in his head but he blinked, forcing himself to remain conscious. "I'm in love with you, I think."

Sophia remained silent, not knowing what to say as Erik began crawling up the stairs, using one hand to keep his mask in place.

"Your fever is speaking on your behalf, Monsieur," she mumbled at last as Fidelio limped out of the way.

Erik stumbled to his room, refusing what help she offered. He lay on his side with his back to her, the last of his strength used to keep his mask in place.

"It is best that you leave at once, Mademoiselle."

"You'll die unless someone stays with you," she said, removing his arm from his robe. She paused once she held the damp garment in her hands, seeing old scars overlapping across his back, most of them centered between his shoulder blades.

"Stay," he said, his voice so weak she could barely hear him. "Stay and the price increases with each day, with each kind word. Stay with me and you'll pay a very heavy price, Mademoiselle."

"There is no price to kindness," Sophia said. She knelt down and gathered the pile of wet clothes and prepared to take them downstairs. She would need to gather rags and a water basin to help bring down his fever. She looked at Erik writhing in bed, sucking in each breath he took and she didn't want to leave him alone.

"There is, Mademoiselle, there is a very heavy price involved when one befriends the devil."

"You're hardly a devil," she said. He was delirious. There was no reason to answer, yet Sophia felt compelled to speak with him. She gently touched his shoulder, wanting to let him know she was near him and that she had no intention of leaving.

"I am the devil's son," he said before he exhaled hard and said nothing more.


	38. Surviving the Night

Paladin38

What was and what had been twisted within Erik's mind, distorting his sense of time and place. He felt himself drifting, his body weightless as delirium tightly coiled around him, impeding his thoughts and hearing. He felt something cool against his left cheek, something welcoming and gentle. But before his eyes there was only darkness, and faces.

Terrible faces, mouths with missing teeth, empty eye sockets staring at him. He remembered cold—endless, bone-chilling cold. There were no blankets for warmth, for shelter. Uncomfortable burlap sacks were fitted through the bars and straw lined the floor, but there was never anything more. Nothing for the devil's son.

-o-

Sophia wrung her hands, wanting to do more for him but knowing the fever needed to pass on its own. She draped a cold, wet rag against his chest and another over the left side of his face. He grunted occasionally but didn't wake, the sounds leaving his mouth indistinguishable.

She was exhausted, her eyes so dry that they burned, but she couldn't leave him. She feared that he would die of fever. In all her life she had never seen anyone become ill so suddenly, though judging by the weight of his discarded clothes he had undoubtedly been soaked to the bone. The sheets were damp where he lay, but he no longer sweated once the fever progressed.

Erik groaned, his fingers tangled in Fidelio's fur. The dog whined with him, furiously licking his master's face, lapping up beads of water from the rag. She hadn't moved the dog out of the room, mostly because he was too big for her to handle, but also because the animal had growled when she reached for the rope Citrine had fashioned into a collar. With his paw raised in the air, he would stand throughout the night and await his master's acknowledgment.

"Rest," she whispered to Erik, not knowing what else to say or do.

-o-

The voices he remembered. They carried through the tent, those shrieks of laughter and fright. Each night it was the same cruel cycle of sitting alone and waiting for the inevitable to come. Erik wasn't certain why he continued to fight for his pride. Young and wiry, he was no match for the gypsies who tormented him regardless of whether there was a paying crowd or not.

He shivered as he heard the same simple tune from an accordion being played again and again. If only they had allowed him to touch an instrument he could have mesmerized the crowd, but the gypsies didn't want a child who played the violin or sang. They wanted something that would make women turn away in horror and would make men's skin crawl the moment its hideousness was revealed.

And so he waited, his heart thumping madly, his anger increasing as the jeers grew louder and he knew the crowd was coming closer. He braced himself for the inevitable, the wounds from the previous night still throbbing along his back and sides. Still, no amount of pain could keep him from fighting back, as he knew there was a world beyond the dark canvas borders which made up his little hell. And no matter the price, it was worth fighting for.

-o-

He would be more comfortable without his mask, Sophia reasoned as Erik squirmed from his side onto his back. She knelt beside him on the floor and turned the rag over, knowing that he would cool faster if the rag could be placed over both sides of his forehead.

He grunted again, seeming to protest as Sophia patted his collarbone with the damp cloth. She sponged his shoulder, which soothed him into silence again, and for a while he rested peacefully and finally fell deeply asleep.

When Sophia was certain he was fast asleep, she rose from his bedside and walked downstairs in search of a fresh pitcher of water and additional rags. She glanced briefly in the water closet mirror at her bruised face before tucking a thermometer into her pocket. Startled by her reflection she pushed her hair behind her ears. Her father was not the sort of man who hit his children. Other than bumps and bruises caused by her own recklessness, she had never been injured in her life.

"You'll live," she murmured to herself as she walked out of the room, finding she could no longer face herself or the memories her reflection conjured. There were other things at hand, more important tasks and duties.

Sophia paused at the foot of the stairs and considered donning her cloak and waking Citrine, but she didn't want to leave Monsieur Belmont alone for too long.

Halfway up the stairs she heard the bed creaking and grimaced. She heard him through the door and prayed that he was still in bed, as she knew she wasn't strong enough to lift him off the floor.

"Monsieur, may I come in?" Sophia asked as she peered through the doorway.

He was still on his bed, his hands clinging to his pillow. His eyes were slit open, the rims red and his face flushed. Sophia knocked but he didn't acknowledge her, so she entered his room.

"I brought you water," she said loudly, hoping to jar him back to his senses.

"Don't take it," he muttered.

"Monsieur, you need to drink something," she said as she stood nervously at his bedside. She feared that if he didn't recognize her he would lash out. Even if his strength were diminished, he was still bigger than she. One strike from his arm and she would be on the floor.

Sophia left the water basin on the service table and squeezed out two more washrags. She waited until he settled down again before she knelt beside him, turning the rags over to bring him relief while adding two more. For a while she watched him breathe, noticing that the sudden cold made him shiver. Removing them again, she touched his left cheek, gently running her finger down to his jaw.

Erik watched her briefly, his eyes darting around, searching her face.

"Drink," she said.

Once she placed another pillow behind his head she brought water to his lips. The majority spilled from the side of his mouth, but when he had his fill he turned away and closed his eyes.

"Christine," he whispered.

Sophia studied his tense jaw and wondered whom he spoke to as he slept. He said no more and she rose to her feet to return the cup to the service table.

-o-

They were there, filing through the tent opening. So many cruel, grinning faces all straining for a better look. They paid the gypsy as they entered, each coin dropped into his thick, dirty hand accounting for yet another person gawking into his cage.

"Come, come see the devil's child."

Erik shuddered, trying in vain to ignore the people crowding around his confines. He kept his eyes averted, his attention focused on the simple toy fashioned to look like a monkey with cymbals.

"I'm not the devil's child," he murmured to the toy before hitting the cymbals together.

-o-

He groaned again.

"I'm here, Monsieur. It's Sophia."

"I'm not the devil's child."

Erik turned toward her, his eyes opening wider though his expression didn't change. Sophia brushed the back of her hand along his cheek and sighed. He was still much too warm and she was becoming frustrated, not knowing what else she could do for him. If she placed more rags on his skin he would cool too quickly, but if she left him his fever would rage.

Sophia returned to his side and slipped the thermometer between his lips. Within seconds the temperature rose to 40.5 degrees Celsius. He shouldn't have been warmer than thirty-seven degrees.

"My God," she whispered as she pulled it from his mouth and dropped it into her pocket again. She had to do something.

She had to remove the mask.

"Monsieur," she whispered.

He exhaled hard, his face turning away from her, his mask buried in his pillow.

She frowned at him. Erik had asked her never to remove his mask. She considered how angry he had been at the time but told herself that this wasn't a matter of his pride. He could die if his mask was left on, she told herself, or she could remove it and reduce his fever faster without chilling him again.

He wouldn't be without it for long—merely an hour or so before she wanted to have him awake again and he could have his mask back. He didn't need to know she had taken it.

"Please, Monsieur," Sophia continued. She sat beside him, gingerly slipping her fingers beneath his mask. "Please don't be angry with me."

-o-

The door creaked open and feet pounded into the cage. For months Erik had attempted to convince himself that if he didn't look him in the eye the man would go away. His name was Gouche and he ran the show. When the circus closed for the night Erik saw him in the shadows as he made his rounds to collect money. He lingered around the acrobats and hit the bars of the animal cages to make the tigers roar and lash out. With slow, calculated moves he always approached Erik last.

"They will never return for you," Gouche said in his ear as he grabbed the burlap sack covering Erik's head. He snatched the monkey from Erik's grasp and tossed it aside.

As he did each time, Erik struggled, holding the bottom of the hood, refusing to be humiliated. The crowd jeered, some throwing rocks or rotten food through the bars. His arms and torso were already bruised and covered in flea bites.

Gouche wrenched Erik's head forward and forced him to the ground before he flogged him. Erik struggled to sit up through the first three blows but it was a battle quickly lost. The only thing he could do was hold back his fear, to sit stone-faced until the crowds tired and walked away, satisfied that they had gotten their money's worth of horrors.

-o-

He was gasping for breath. Sophia pursed her lips and slowly lifted the mask away. His struggles had ceased, exhaustion claiming him again. She ran the cool rag over his chest and began to hum, more to comfort herself than the delirious man before her.

Her nose wrinkled at the first revelation of scarred flesh. She had seen men pock-marked and she had seen hands and arms burned, but this was neither caused by disease nor fire. This was different.

Erik flinched as the cool air hit his exposed face and Sophia released the mask. He turned away slightly but didn't wake, and when it seemed as though he were asleep she gripped the side by his jaw, closed her eyes and pulled it off in one swift motion.

Bracing herself, Sophia took a deep breath and opened her eyes to see what he never intended her eyes to view.

-o-

With one violent tug he was exposed to the paying crowd. A hand grabbed his hair and forced his face up for all to see.

Erik stared back, hoping to shame them for laughing, for pelting him with objects as well as their cruel words.

"Is it real?" a woman asked.

"Aye, it's real. Look at him breathing," a man answered.

"How did you find this thing?"

"Relinquished to my hands," Gouche answered, jabbing Erik in the ribs. "By a poor young woman who wouldn't tell me her story."

It took everything he possessed to hold back the tears but somehow he managed to wait, to hold his breath and reserve his pain for later, for the solitude that always came.

"Does it speak?"

Gouche laughed then, a terrible, wheezing belly laugh. "Sometimes, when the moon is full, it hypnotizes nymphs with its voice and devours them whole."

The crowd shrieked with laughter as Erik sank to his knees, unable and unwilling to stand before their taunts a moment longer.

"I'm not an animal," he whispered. "I'm not a beast."

The straw beneath him changed before his eyes, replaced by stone. His child hands changed to a man's large grasp. The cage turned invisible and his eyes were trained on something small and sparkly.

A ring.

Erik glanced up, knowing what he would find, yet still he had to see her again. There was Christine, her eyes dry as she looked from him to a fistful of coins.

"Why, Christine?"

"You're a monster," she answered.

Behind her stood Gouche, not aged a day, holding the key to his old cage.

"Lock him away," Christine said before she turned. "I'm finished here."

-o-

Sophia brushed away the tears streaming down Erik's face. She turned the rag over again, covering his red, distorted forehead. It was impossible not to stare at his exposed face. His nose was misshapen, his lower eyelid pulled down, his brow missing. His cheek was like clay left to dry, uneven, dried in spots and broken in others. She could tell where the mask rubbed against his cheekbone and irritated his skin.

But as terrible as it was, Sophia cooled his fevered skin, turning his face so that she could better see her work. She placed her bare hand along his cheek when he struggled and caressed him gently where no one had dared to touch him.

Sophia checked his temperature again. It had gone down to thirty-eight degrees, which wasn't quite what she wanted but showed improvement. She noticed he had started to sweat and that goose bumps covered his arms.

"It's breaking," she sighed, glancing at the clock. It was just after five in the morning. Citrine would be in the house soon.

When Sophia took the thermometer from his mouth he grabbed her by the wrist.

"Monsieur!" she panicked, attempting to free her hand.

-o-

A hand turned his face away from Christine and Gouche, a gentle hand, a soothing hand against his bare left cheek. At first the person beside him had no face, only a voice, which he couldn't understand.

He wanted to struggle, to protest her touching him. He feared she would shriek or laugh or turn away in horror.

Though he couldn't see her, he knew she was about to leave him, so he took hold of her, imprisoning her against his side. His eyes darted around. Christine and Gouche were gone, the music box, the ring, the cave walls…gone. There was nothing but this woman whose wrist he held.

"Monsieur!"

He turned toward her once more and saw her face, his clouded mind slowly remembering what had come to pass and what were distorted recollections. It was Sophia behind the bruises who stood before him. Of all the expression in the world, hers was not one with which he was familiar: Relief.

"Don't leave me," he murmured, his grasp loosening.

Her hand slipped away from his and he held his breath, waiting for her to disappear. Instead she bent forward and kissed his forehead, her gesture sweet and sincere.

"Rest," she said, clasping his hand. "You gave me an awful fright, Monsieur."

"You," he said weakly, turning his face away to cough.

"Don't speak, Monsieur. You need to rest."

"Your face."

Sophia looked away. "It will heal," she said quickly.

He wanted to apologize for everything, for not knowing how to treat her well, for being ignorant in protecting her from harm. He wanted to promise her that he could care for her if she gave him a chance, but he feared her answer. More than anything, he wanted to beg her to forgive him for his appearance, for the one thing that would never change.

"Forgive me," he pleaded.

Sophia squeezed his hand tighter. "There is nothing to forgive."

-o-

Within moments he released her hand and Sophia removed the washcloths on his chest and forehead. She grabbed a blanket and draped it over him, watching as he turned on his side and exhaled, his body finally at rest.

Sophia bent down and moved his hair from his face. She studied him again, her eyes darting from the good half to the scarred half. What a curse, she thought, to know what it would be like to have a normal, handsome face—but to possess such scars that no one would ever be able to look at one side and ignore the other.

"You said you think you're in love with me," she whispered in his ear. "Will you remember in the morning?"

Sophia kissed his forehead twice, once on each side before she settled into a chair at his bedside, exhaustion taking its toll.

His eyes rolled open and looked into hers, recognition coming immediately.

"Sophia," he whispered back, his voice strained from thirst. "I do."

A/N 40.5 degrees C is approximately 105 degrees F.


	39. Shared Affection

Paladin39

Erik woke to a pounding headache.

"I do…"

Sophia was so close to sleep that Erik wasn't certain if she had heard his words or not. He watched her, his breath caught in his throat, his heart beating wildly. He felt the cool air on his face and his insides churned, wondering how long he had been without his greatest shield from the world.

"I do love you," he whispered, straining as he recovered his mask from the bedside table.

Sophia blinked slowly, her eyes heavy, the whites turned red from a sleepless night spent doting over his health.

"Did you say something?" she slurred, her head tipping forward. She leaned forward and adjusted his blanket, her fingers gently brushing against his arm.

Erik reached out and grasped her hand, the hand that had placed and turned washcloths throughout the night and kept his fevered skin cool. It had been three decades since anyone had cared for him and he didn't know how to react.

"Mademoiselle," Erik started.

Sophia clasped his hand. "You should rest," she said as she looked him in the eye.

Hers was the hand that had removed his mask, he knew. He ran his thumb over her knuckles, grateful to have her near him, knowing he had done nothing in his lifetime to deserve her kindness.

"I said I do," he replied at last, coughing again. His throat was so dry that it hurt to speak. He was terribly dehydrated, his lips cracked and sore, but no matter the pain he needed to tell her. "I do love you and I will no matter what happens."

Sophia's eyes turned glassy and she nodded. "No one has ever been in love with me before."

Her words made him smile weakly. "It's a very difficult thing to tell someone," he said.

Sophia forced herself to sit up and reached for a cup of water, which he took from her grasp with a murmured thank you. Pride conquered his exhaustion and he sat up, turning away slightly as he drank from the cup. He could feel her watching him and wondered how many hours she had spent staring at the scars. Before he could dwell on the matter he turned to face her, waiting for her response.

"Why is it so difficult?" Sophia asked.

Erik rested for a moment, his fingers still intertwined with Sophia's. "Because there is a very bad feeling that comes when you love someone but they don't love you."

After he spoke he realized that Sophia had not said anything regarding his professed affection for her. His words suddenly felt prophetic, dwelling in the silence and refusing to leave him.

Sophia nodded. "You frightened me to death last night, Monsieur."

"Likewise, Mademoiselle."

Sophia smiled and briefly squeezed his fingers before her eyes closed. Her shoulders slumped and her hand fell into her lap, which startled her awake. She blinked several times and rubbed her eyes, wincing as she touched her bruises.

"I'm so tired," she said, reaching for his hand again. "If you wouldn't mind, I will merely close my eyes for a moment and then return home."

"If you wish to lie down..."

Sophia shook her head quickly. "It's highly improper, Monsieur."

"I will take the chair, Mademoiselle. You may sleep as long as you wish."

"You're very kind, but you still have a low fever. You should rest yourself so that the fever doesn't rage."

Erik sat upright and inched closer to the edge of the bed, preparing to swing his legs onto the floor. He shivered as the blanket fell down from his chest, feeling goose bumps rise on his bare arms. The change of position made him dizzy, but he was determined to see her comfortable and at rest. After all she had endured he couldn't bear having her strain herself a moment longer.

"Here," he said.

Sophia rose from her seat and sat beside him, her hand clutching his tightly. He watched her in silence, unwilling to speak, while she stared at her knees. He feared any words would end the peace he felt merely sitting beside her. Though exhausted and thirsty he felt more at ease at this moment than he had felt in years.

"I had only intended to return your cape and to gather boric acid and cloths to wash my scrapes and cuts," she said. Her lip trembled as her eyes closed again. "I know it was very late, but I wasn't sleepy."

She stopped speaking and took a slow, deep breath, but Erik knew by her expression that she was too overwhelmed to stop her emotions. Her time of caring for him and forgetting her own needs had passed, and without a sound she began to cry, her shoulders shaking and chin sinking down to her chest.

"I thought for certain he would kill me," she sobbed. "Oh, Monsieur, I've never been so frightened. I wanted to fight him, but I feared he would kill me if I did and I didn't want to die."

As to not frighten her further, Erik gently placed his hand on her shoulder. "I won't harm you, Sophia. I swear it. You're safe in this house, on my property."

"I know." She clutched his bare arm and rested her forehead against his shoulder. "I'm so tired, Monsieur," she whispered, covering her mouth with one hand while Erik took the other in his hand. "So tired…and afraid that he will come here again."

"He will regret it dearly if he steps foot on my land. He is very fortunate I didn't return to his home and strangle him tonight after what he did to you."

Sophia nodded against his arm and Erik closed his eyes, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He felt her exhale before she lifted her head and looked into his eyes. Her expression was so soft that she left him speechless.

"Monsieur…Erik," she whispered.

"You need your rest as well."

"I don't think you should…" she said, her voice fading.

Erik couldn't move when Sophia placed her hand against his mask and pried it away. He feared her reaction, but he wanted to know what she felt when she looked at him. For weeks he had replayed the horrified sound of the crowds in the back of his mind. It was the only reaction he was accustomed to.

Sophia's fingers brushed past his cheek and he shivered, the sensation was so foreign that he closed his eyes, wanting to savor how soft and smooth her hand was against his ruined flesh.

"Does this hurt?" she asked.

He shook his head gently, opening his eyes to watch her expression. She appeared far more concerned than horrified, which perplexed him.

Sophia's gaze wandered and he looked away from her face, feeling that she was silently scrutinizing him. His grip slowly loosened, the weight of her unspoken words settling hard on his heart.

"Monsieur, perhaps you should not wear your mask so often," Sophia said softly. "Your skin needs to breathe."

She took a handkerchief from her pocket and looked at him hard, waiting for his permission to touch his face. Lowering his eyes, Erik nodded once.

"It won't heal," he muttered. "It has never healed."

"Because you keep it covered?" she questioned.

It wasn't her intention to anger him, he knew, but he felt increasingly uncomfortable, which made him agitated more at himself than at her.

"Because…" Erik shrugged, "because. That's how it has been for as long as I can remember."

Sophia said nothing as she pulled the handkerchief away and showed him the pink stain left behind.

"Has it always bled?"

Erik shook his head. He didn't know what to say to her. Once in a great while he experienced discomfort, but it hadn't been until Christine left with her fiancé that his skin grew aggravated from moisture trapped between the mask and his flesh. No matter the pain he refused to uncover his face regardless of whether or not he was alone. He wanted to feel it and remind himself of Christine, of all he had experienced—or thought he had experienced. The longer he thought of her the less real it all seemed and the more he realized they had never spoken of anything other than music.

The hole in his heart was much larger and emptier than he had ever imagined, and as much as he loved music and knew Christine felt the same, it hadn't been enough for him. When he looked at Sophia it was as though he finally saw each misstep. He had chased an idea, not a woman. He had wanted what he saw was perfect, not what had existed.

"I should return home, Monsieur, before Philippe wakes and worries," Sophia said softly.

Erik nodded. "Have you rested enough?"

Sophia smiled. "No, I'll most likely fall asleep on the stairs."

Erik thought she would rise and leave his room, but she stayed a while longer and rested her head against his arm. Her breathing deepened, and when he tilted his head forward he saw that she was asleep again, resting in his arms.

"Sophia, I do love you," he said, drawing the blanket up over her shoulders and his. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was already five-thirty. Citrine would start her day at six and when he heard her in the kitchen he would wake Sophia.

Erik kissed her forehead as she slept. "I do love you more than anyone in the world, Sophia."

"I think I'm in love with you too, Erik" she murmured.

As gently as he could he lay her down and covered her, lying on his back beside her.

The dreams had finally come to an end, the visions of his past he wished had been nightmares rather than his childhood. He had never been more grateful upon waking than when he found Sophia at his side. And when he reclined with her next to him, he wanted nothing more than to wake again and find her there.


	40. Patience

Paladin 40

Citrine followed in Sophia's frozen footprints all the way to the back door. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Gabe still standing beneath a tree decorated with icicles. He waved, one hand jammed in his pocket as he shifted his weight.

"I'll see you for lunch," he called.

"Your father will be furious," Citrine yelled back.

"To see you, Mademoiselle, it's worth it."

Rene Monteclaire shouted to Gabe from the open barn doors. With a nervous smile Gabe turn and bounded away, blowing Citrine a kiss before he disappeared.

"Foolish man," she said under her breath, shaking her head as she walked into the kitchen.

The kitchen was freezing, so Citrine kept her cloak on and forced the blazes back to life in both the kitchen and the parlor.

"Sophia? Did you start early?" Citrine called, attempting to keep her voice quiet as she walked down the hall.

Fidelio whined at her from the top of the stairs, his tail wagging and injured paw held above the ground.

"Oh, you!" Citrine grumbled. "You've gone and removed the wrapping, you terrible thing. Come down here at once!"

Fidelio lowered his head and took a step back in protest.

Citrine gripped the railing. "Now you listen here, you mangy bag of bones, I said come down this instance."

With a low growl Fidelio playfully wagged his tail and bounded into Erik's bedroom, nudging the door with his head.

Gritting her teeth, Citrine walked halfway up the stairs and whistled for Fidelio, but just as she expected he ignored her in favor of staying with Monsieur Belmont.

"Oh, no you don't," Citrine said as she stomped down the stairs and into the kitchen. She found a beef bone and marched up the stairs. "You will not spite me, Fidelio. I'm the one that fed you and I have every intention of making sure you're healed proper, you little bug—"

Her words were cut off the moment she reached the top of the stairs and peered into Monsieur Belmont's open door. She blinked twice, thinking that surely she was mistaken in what she saw.

Citrine swallowed hard as she tiptoed closer and saw Sophia asleep with her head resting against Monsieur Belmont's arm.

The two of them were lying lengthwise across the bed with Monsieur Belmont's long legs hanging over the end. Sophia, who was partially on her side, was beneath the blanket, but Citrine could still see her dress at her ankles.

Monsieur Belmont, however, was a different story. His arms and chest were bare, and Citrine blushed at the sight of her employer lying in bed with one of his servants. Still, she noticed that his right hand covered his face as he slept and his left hand held Sophia's hand.

Fidelio placed his uninjured paw on the bed and nudged Monsieur Belmont's elbow with his wet nose. With a grunt the master of the house inched closer to Sophia and told Fidelio to go downstairs.

Citrine made the sign of the cross and quietly made her way down the stairs.

"I won't say a word, but lord help you both if Philippe finds out," Citrine muttered as she took a pan from the cupboard and banged it against the stove, hoping to wake Sophia before she was discovered.

-o-

Erik inhaled deeply to the racket coming from the kitchen, his arm shifting beneath Sophia's head. He wanted to pull the blanket up closer to his chin, but he was

She watched as he licked his lips and groaned, murmuring something to himself. Another loud bang in the kitchen made them both jump.

"Citrine is here," Sophia said quietly.

Erik's eyes popped open and he glanced around, finding Sophia beside him. He blinked twice, slowly registering what had happened as he kept his hand pressed to his face.

"How do you feel?" he asked at last, slowly lowering his right hand. He smiled just enough for her to notice, his tired eyes showing a glint of his mirth.

"You shouldn't have allowed me to fall asleep, Monsieur," she said as she sat up, taking the blanket with her.

"You were exhausted," he replied.

Erik reached for his shirt, shivering in the cold now that his blanket was gone.

"Yes, Monsieur, but what if someone saw? It's improper."

"Nothing happened."

"Yes, Monsieur, but you know as well as I do that it is still wrong."

He exhaled, swiping the half-full glass from the bedside table and drinking deeply.

"We did nothing wrong," he said under his breath. He wiped his lips and set the glass back on the table with a heavy thud.

"Two unmarried adults sharing the same bed, Monsieur—"

"Stop."

Sophia swallowed hard. She didn't want to argue with him, as she was still quite exhausted and entirely beside herself for waking up next to Erik.

"I don't understand, Monsieur—"

"The formality," he said with his back to her. "Why must you use such formality when you address me?"

Sophia felt her cheeks burn. "Respect…because you're still my employer."

Erik glanced at her before he bowed his head. She watched him as he ran his hands through his light brown hair and sighed.

"You think this is a tryst?"

"I don't know what to think," Sophia answered. "I know what you said, but one never knows Mons—Erik."

"I do care for you," he said, his voice rising. "And if I didn't care for you at all I would have waited until you fell asleep and did what I desired. Don't you understand that?"

Sophia nodded, shriveling away from Erik. Though not a violent man, her father possessed a thunderous voice, and the one thing that always sent her running was his growl.

"Do you understand?" Erik pressed.

"Please don't yell at me."

He lowered his eyes and frowned.

"I'm not," he said softly, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath and pressed his fingertips together, exhaling slowly.

Sophia's face still hurt, her eyes feeling strained each time she blinked. She knew Erik was correct and that they hadn't done anything wrong. Karl Turro was the one who had done something terribly wrong, something shameful and barbaric.

Something she never wanted to experience again. Sophia knew she would recall this night long after the bruises faded and the abrasions healed. She would recall this with horror for the remainder of her life.

"Then how do I prove it to you?" Erik asked, turning his head so that he stared her in the eye. "How can I prove to you that I care for you?"

His face remained uncovered, the sadness in his expression almost overwhelming. Sophia saw in his eyes the will to do whatever she asked of him. He was genuine, she knew. He did care for her—just as he had said—but she feared that he was too much a man, and after Karl Turro's actions she feared what could happen if she wasn't careful.

"Patience," Sophia said at last. "Give me your patience."

He continued to stare at her, searching her eyes for further answers. Exhaling, he rose to his feet and turned away. Fidelio stayed at his side, guarding his master with unmatched loyalty.

"I have never been one for patience," Erik muttered. "I am short-tempered, expectant and pig-headed. For as long as I can remember I have always been this way. Impatient…terribly, terribly unwilling to wait or compromise…"

His words made Sophia's cheeks burn. If he wished to refuse her then she would have nothing to do with him. Once she left his room she would go to Philippe and ask him if they could find employment elsewhere, as she would rather live on the street and beg for food than tolerate cruelty.

Slowly, she backed away from the bed, her green eyes lowered. Before she took more than two steps Erik turned and looked at her again. His visage had changed, his eyes looking lighter in color. His lips no longer held a thin, tight line. They appeared fuller, the dimple on the left side of his cheek more prominent.

"I will find the patience," he said softly. "For you, Sophia, I will find the patience. That is how much I care for you."


	41. Citrine's Observation

Paladin41

Patience.

Erik watched as Sophia walked through the front door and returned to her home. She had a small bag under her arm filled with medical remedies from Citrine. Before the cook brought him his breakfast Citrine had told Sophia what to do with all the ingredients from the kitchen.

"You sound like a witch doctor," Sophia commented when she was in the hall.

Erik stood by his door and smiled, thinking her humor was a good indication of her recovery.

"You won't think so when your face is healed and you're more beautiful than you were before."

Sophia hurried out of the house. She was worried that her brother would suspect something—or worse: wake up and find her missing.

She allowed Erik a kiss to her cheek before she thanked him for his understanding. When he saw how grateful she was he found it ironic and wondered how she would feel if she knew how much he feared her leaving him forever. Merely thinking of her brought about a surge of emotion unlike anything he had felt before. It seemed odd to him that with Christine he felt mostly anger and grieving, but with Sophia he felt much different.

He felt hopeful. He could think of few people who saw his face and didn't recoil or shriek in horror.

Now that Sophia was gone, Erik wondered where he would find this elusive concoction of hidden patience, this elixir to his loneliness. He didn't regret his promise, but he knew it would be difficult to keep.

"It's worth it," he said to himself as he turned away and walked to his serving table.

He felt almost sick from hunger, a feeling that hadn't plagued him since he was a child. The moment he sat down Fidelio whimpered, reminding his master that he was present and equally ravenous.

The big chestnut eyes could not be denied a moment longer.

"From one lucky dog to another," Erik murmured, cutting up his fried egg and giving part to his hound.

-o-

Philippe was nearly ready to tear apart Sophia's mattress when he heard her walk through the front door and call his name.

"Sophia!" he shouted as he ran into the hall.

"I'm here," she answered.

He nearly knocked her over when he hugged her, thanking God that she was safe. Just as swiftly as he was overwhelmed with gratitude he became irate.

"Foolish girl!"

Sophia bowed her head. "I apologize, Philippe."

"You nearly gave me a heart attack! After everything that happened last night, why didn't you tell me you were leaving? You had me worried to death."

"It was only supposed to be for a moment."

"A moment is all it takes for that…_man_ to do you harm. I don't want you out of my sight from this moment on. When you're in this house I am with you. When you leave this house I will be behind you."

"Philippe, please, that would never work."

"It can and it will. Either I will be with you or Citrine…or possibly Gabe,if I have a long talk with him. I trusted that…that _animal_ for too long. I will not be fooled again."

Sophia shifted her weight, and by the anxious expression on her face Philippe knew what she was thinking.

"Sophia, I have no doubt that Monsieur Belmont has your best interest at heart. I'm sure he's a gentleman, but at this time it is best if you are only in my company or Citrine's. You understand why I do these things for you, don't you?" Philippe sighed and took her by the arm, gazing down at her with sympathy. "You're the only person I have left."

"You're the only person I have left," Sophia said as she threw her arms around his neck. "And I am grateful, Philippe, but—"

"Then you will not stray."

"Philippe—"

"I've made up my mind."

She shook her head. "But,what about my lessons?"

"What lessons?"

"My piano lessons."

Philippe had serious reservations concerning how much of her time spent in the parlor was truly learning to play the piano and how much was reserved for romantic pursuit. Either way, she obviously looked forward to it.

"You may resume," he said. Sophia squeezed him tighter. "But only if I may attend."

Sophia drew back and looked Philippe in the eye. "Why, of course you may attend, my dearest brother."

At first Philippe thought she was jesting, but her smile never faded. She hugged him again and pulled away, telling him she needed to wash her cuts and scrapes.

"When are your lessons?" Philippe asked.

"Erik said I may have my lesson after dinner. I told him you were quite the warbler," Sophia smiled.

"Oh, Sophia, you know how frivolous I think these things are. Acting, singing…it's such a waste of energy."

"Then you shall waste your energy around the piano tonight at ten."

-o-

It was obvious to Citrine that Monsieur Belmont was not himself. When she served his breakfast in the morning he looked dreadfully pale, his face haggard from lack of sleep.

"He had such a fever that I thought he would die," Sophia had confided to Citrine.

"You should have told Philippe—or me. I would have helped you care for him."

"I know," Sophia replied. "But his mask…he would have been quite cross if he knew that I had removed it before others."

"Why does he wear it?" Citrine asked, despite guessing the reason. "Is he badly scarred?"

Sophia didn't readily answer. She daydreamed for several moments before she turned her attention back to her friend.

"Yes," she answered. "He's terribly scarred. His nose, his eye, his cheek, his brow…it looks as though perhaps when he was very young the bones were broken and never healed correctly…or he was in a terrible accident sometime in his life."

"You don't know what happened?"

Sophia shook her head. "He was quite delirious given his fever. He babbled throughout the night, and I didn't question him. His business is his own."

"You're not curious?"

Sophia shrugged. "I'm more curious about the man behind the scars than the reason he bears them."

To that Citrine grinned. "How long have you been in love with Monsieur Belmont?"

"Ooh! You're a nosy thing today," Sophia said.

Citrine handed her a cloth bag. "Mushrooms, honey, wine, some garlic and a little bit of Irish mud will see you to health once more."

"You sound like a witch doctor."

Sophia's comment made Citrine smile. She was once again going to play witch doctor she thought as she climbed the stairs and discovered Monsieur Belmont had left his bedroom door ajar.

Fidelio was sitting by his side, propped up on his hind legs as he waited for scraps.

"Whoever abandoned you was a fool," Erik said as he patted the dog on the head. "A rare animal like you, so loyal and handsome, eh, Fidelio?"

The dog responded with a high-pitched bark, his tail thrashing back and forth in excitement.

"Quiet down now, Fidelio. A few more weeks of the little mademoiselle's cooking and she'll have you pot-bellied. Your legs better grow longer so your belly won't drag on the ground."

Citrine ducked down so that Erik couldn't see her. In all her weeks of working in his household she hadn't heard him say more than a handful of words. Apparently he saved them all for Sophia and Fidelio.

"You mind Mademoiselle Citrine. I've letters to write and work to be done," Erik said as he rose to his feet.

Citrine popped back up before Erik turned and saw her eavesdropping. Her sudden appearance on the stairs startled him, and he came to the door looking nervous.

"No more coffee," he said. "You make take the tray."

"I came to see how you were feeling, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Dupree tells me you were running quite a fever last night."

He turned away and nodded. "It has passed."

Citrine glanced at Fidelio, thinking the hound had swallowed her master's tongue. This would not do at all. Citrine had it in her mind that she would not have the dog in better graces than she.

Monsieur Belmont was proving a greater challenge than she first anticipated, though she would have him warmed up to her soon enough, even if meant to stooping as low as to using the ingredients in her kitchen. All men, as her mother once said, can be conquered through their stomachs.

"Good, because I have made chicken soup, Monsieur, and you know what they say about fevers?"

"No." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and elaborated. "I apologize, Mademoiselle, what do they say?"

"Starve a fever. But now that you are feeling better I will bring you the best chicken soup you have ever tasted. It has carrots, celery, tomatoes, potatoes, leeks and chunks of chicken and a little pat of butter in the saltiest chicken broth you have ever tasted."

Watching Monsieur Belmont was like witnessing an iceberg melting. She had him in her hand—clutching him by his palate.

"Is it done?"

Citrine smiled. "You just finished breakfast. Certainly you wish to wait a few hours before lunch?"

"A mere taste," he responded. "Before I start my work."

"As you wish," she curtsied before she bounded down the stairs, grinning to herself.


	42. Protecting Sophia

Paladin 42

Philippe kept an ever-watchful eye on Sophia for the remainder of the work day, which prevented her from joining Erik at dinner. While she napped in the morning he ventured between the main house and the servants' quarters that he shared with his sister.

Sophia wanted to tell him that he walked like a horse, but she didn't have the heart to berate him. After so many months of him being on nerve's end he seemed somewhat calmer today, perhaps pleased with himself that he had rescued his sister.

When Sophia couldn't sleep a moment longer, she went to work folding clothes. She walked through the house in the evening and peered through her window, seeing Erik's light on.

The past evening was a terrifying blur to her now. She continued to look over her shoulder each time the wind blew against the windows or the trees scraped against the side of the house.

She wondered when the trepidation would cease, when the moments of heart-rendering terror would fade like her bruises. As long as she kept herself occupied she was at ease.

"Are you ready for dinner?" Philippe called down the hall.

Sophia sniffed the air skeptically, wishing Citrine had cooked and not Philippe. "Yes, one moment, please."

Her words were followed by a crash from the kitchen and Philippe cursing under his breath. Abandoning her shoes, she ran down the hall and into the kitchen.

"What happened?"

"Burned myself," he muttered, sucking on his thumb.

The two-quart pan was tipped on its side, the boiled vegetables strewn across the floor.

"You're not supposed to grab it with your bare hand," Sophia sighed as she shook her head at her brother. "You sit down and I'll finish this."

"I'll do it," he snapped as he crouched on the floor. "I'm not helpless."

"Well, perhaps when you're out of the kitchen, but in here you're a mess. It looks like a fox ran through as it chased a hen" she said under her breath as she grabbed a towel and knelt beside him.

"Finish whatever you were doing. I'll take care of this."

This was like reasoning with a child, Sophia thought.

"Philippe, why are you doing this? Citrine always makes dinner for everyone. We can eat supper with her, Gabe and Rene as usual."

Philippe offered no answer. Once the pan was filled with the spilled vegetables and the water mopped up, he tossed the contents outside and stared at the stove.

"We have bread," he muttered. "And meat on the table. Is that enough?"

He didn't wait for her to answer. With his jaw set in a scowl he disappeared into the dining room and seated himself.

Frowning, Sophia had a feeling that his anger had nothing to do with the vegetables.

-o-

As much as Erik found he enjoyed Fidelio's company, the Irish wolfhound was no match for Sophia's presence. Her absence left a noticeable hole in the room, emptiness in him that he had never felt before. There had always been loneliness, but this was different. He missed Sophia, longed for the familiarity of her.

Erik watched the minutes tick past, his fixation with the clock proving to do nothing but aggravate him.

Already he was failing at finding his tolerance. Erik set his fork on his plate and rubbed his eyes, realizing he was still exhausted. Even if he had been awake for days he would never have considered canceling Sophia's lessons.

He was all too familiar with wanting, with unrequited desire and primal urges he had always been denied. But what he felt for her was more than physical desire. True enough, he thought Sophia was beautiful and he wanted to be near her, to kiss her and to hold her—to court her. But affection and touch were not his only needs.

He wanted more, something deeper.

He needed her company, needed to see her smile and hear her voice. Throughout the day he imagined her without the bruises and scrapes, her stubborn disposition and determination that were both maddening and endearing. She stirred warmth within his belly, within his heart.

While he sat and stared at his compositions—all of which refused to be finished—he caught sight of his reflection sitting hunched over the desk, his face uncovered.

The drape he used to cover the mirror had fallen without him taking notice. At first, Erik left it, but the longer he sat at the desk the longer he felt his mirrored presence staring back at him.

Only his left side was visible from where he sat, which frustrated him more. As much as he attempted to ignore the mirror, each time he moved he felt his gaze drawn back to himself.

Eventually, he turned slightly, just enough to meet his own gaze.

In the mirror there was only the acceptable side, the man trapped, glued, cauterized to the wicked beast that claimed the right half.

It was worse to be born with half a marred face than being completely disfigured. It was a thousand times worse to see the perfect left eye, left cheek, left temple. Despite his life, his hardships and his suffering, the greatest torture was part of him.

Unable to look at himself in the mirror, Erik walked with his eyes cast down and replaced the curtain, his hands lingering on the soft velvet. He thought of Sophia again, how she had remained at his side through the night.

Doubt returned. Did it ever leave, he wondered? Were other people, normal people, plagued by the fear that once the person they loved walked from their sight they would never return?

Erik shuddered, ashamed of himself. Sophia was the one who suffered, yet he continued to think selfishly of his own plight.

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, fighting the tumbling, agonizing fears that clawed his stomach. Nothing would quell his fears. He had a lifetime of abandonment that paved the road of his life. His mother left him in Paris, Christine left him in that same damned city. Now he was in the countryside, now…?

Now he started over.

"Paris is behind me," he mumbled. "Those days are behind me."

He turned away from the mirror and sat again, knowing that those days were as much inside of him as they were behind him.

-o-

"You are coming with me, aren't you?" Sophia asked after the last dish was set to dry.

Philippe stared at her a moment. "Pardon me?"

"My lesson. You said that you would come with me."

With a sigh, Philippe nodded. "So I did."

"If you don't wish to go, I don't mind going alone."

His expression hardened, dark green eyes narrowing. "No, and I assume Monsieur Belmont wouldn't mind you going alone either."

Sophia knew he regretted his words before he finished speaking. He rubbed his face with his hands and shook his head.

"Forgive me, Sophia. Monsieur Belmont has shown great nobility and ardor with his assistance. It's wrong of me to say such things. It's just…never mind."

Sophia placed the dish towel and her apron aside and turned her head to the side. "I never knew you were so protective. Hard-headed, yes, but this?"

Philippe gave a crooked grin. "You're old enough now to need protection," he said, his stern voice belying his visage.

"I never did like Karl," she murmured. "He was always…unkind to me."

Philippe refused to look at her. For months she had attempted to avoid her meetings with Monsieur Turro, but Philippe refused to listen. He thought she was just being stubborn and constantly told her not to argue.

"Your lessons, how long do they usually take?" Philippe asked, changing the subjet.

Sophia shrugged. "Perhaps an hour and a half at the most."

"You go on ahead. I will be there momentarily."

With a kiss to his cheek, Sophia spun around and reached for her cape. "Will you play as well?"

Philippe shook his head. "This is your hobby, not mine."

Sophia shrugged and padded across the yard and into the kitchen. The moment she swung the door open Gabe jumped away from Citrine, who wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Good evening, mademoiselles," Gabe mumbled as he strolled out.

Sophia watched him leave before she turned back to Citrine, disbelieving what she had seen.

"Come to help or come to stare?" Citrine snapped as she dunked a saucepan into the sink and began scrubbing furiously.

With a smirk, Sophia left her cape on the hook and walked toward the parlor. "My, my," she grinned, glancing back to see Citrine's reaction.

Citrine chose to ignore Sophia, though her crimson cheeks and the uncontainable grin on her face gave her away.

Erik appeared startled when she entered. He placed his paperwork on the piano and gave a nervous smile before his gaze darted across the room. She had never seen him dressed in anything but dark blue or black, but noticed that his deep red waistcoat and matching overcoat made his eyes appear greener.

"Good evening," he said at last, looking away from her.

"Good evening. You look well," Sophia said.

"As do you," he said, turning his attention toward her. With one sweeping glance he took her in fully and smiled. "Sophia."

"Did you rest today?"

He hesitated. "Not really. Why do you inquire?"

His words made her smile coyly. "It was only a question, Erik."

Erik nodded but didn't reply and the silence made Sophia nervous.

"That color looks nice on you," she said. Her throat went dry on her, her palms clammy.

"That's kind of you," he said as he turned away and began sorting through the papers he had set on the piano.

Sophia remained near the door wringing her hands, waiting for him to invite her in. After several moments Erik glanced up and noticed she was still unmoved from her place by the door.

"You may sit if you'd like," he said at last.

Sophia lingered by the piano bench a moment, hoping he would turn toward her. She watched him as he continued shuffling through the compositions.

"I wrote something for you," he said at last. "But it seems I have misplaced it."

"For me?" she asked, her eyes widening.

When he turned and saw her smiling he seemed to relax, the tightness in his face replaced by an easy smile. "It's not very good, I assure you. I wrote it this afternoon."

"Do you remember any of it? Or do you need to read the notes?"

Erik thought a moment. "Sit with me. I'll do my best."

She sat, but before Erik joined her the parlor door opened and Philippe walked in. He looked at Sophia and then at Erik before he walked to a chair in the corner and sat.

"Pretend I'm not here and play as you normally would," Philippe mumbled as he folded his hands.

When Sophia turned around she felt Erik's eyes on her. For the life of her she couldn't seem to find her voice.


	43. Erik's Request

Paladin 43

Erik stared at Philippe for much longer than necessary. He had no idea that Philippe intended to join them, as Sophia hadn't made mention of her brother attending her lesson.

"This will not prevent you from teaching my baby sister, will it, Monsieur?" Philippe questioned.

"It's not entirely conventional," Erik replied. He turned back to the piano and stared at the sheet music for a moment, his irritation growing.

This was supposed to be their time together, their quiet moment to sit and talk and enjoy music.

"Would you prefer a different night, then?" Philippe asked.

Erik grit his teeth, frustrated with himself for allowing Philippe to aggravate him. He knew that if he said something crass to Philippe his chances of spending time with Sophia would swiftly come to an end.

Glancing at Sophia, Erik saw the dismay in her downcast eyes. He knew what he had to do, and though he was certain it would kill him, Erik rose and walked toward Philippe Dupree.

Sophia gasped audibly and Philippe stared past Erik at his sister.

"A word in the hall, Monsieur, if you will."

Philippe looked uncertain at first, but with a curt nod he rose and followed Erik into the hall, glancing back once to give Sophia a reassuring smile.

Once the door closed Philippe crossed his arms and took several paces down the hall. "You wish to speak with me?" he asked with his back turned.

"Yes, I—"

"Regarding my sister?"

"Yes, I—"

"There's little that needs to be discussed."

Erik felt his ears burn. He looked at Philippe standing at the end of the hall, refusing to return his gaze. Nothing angered him more than being ignored.

"I disagree," he said simply.

Philippe glanced at his watch. "After everything that happened last night," he said, keeping his voice low, "the very last thing Sophia needs to concern herself with is facing the same confusion, the same circumstances."

Erik fell silent, so enraged that he couldn't utter a sound. His nostrils flaring, his heart hammering in his chest, he stared at the back of Philippe's head and considered how simple it would be to place the noose around his neck.

Turning away, Erik walked to the opposite end of the hall where he saw Citrine in the kitchen. She studied him a moment before she curtsied and disappeared into the dining room, sliding the door closed.

"You have come tonight to ensure her safety?" Erik asked at last.

Philippe exhaled. "I mean no offense."

Erik turned toward him. "You admit to attending her lesson to keep me from abusing her and you expect I will take no offense?"

Philippe's shoulders fell. "You're correct, Monsieur, and I do apologize for my words. Your actions have been chivalrous toward Sophia, but in the past Monsieur Turro showed similar benevolent intent. I am no longer a trusting man. Surely you feel the same way toward your sisters, cousins…any female relative."

Erik held back a shudder. His eyes turned down briefly and he nodded. "Of course," he mumbled.

"To be truthful, Monsieur, there are other reasons for my concerns."

Philippe's words garnered Erik's full attention. He met Philippe's eyes and bade him to continue, expecting to hear his butler tell him that he preferred a man to court his sister, not a monster.

"I will not see my sister become any man's mistress," Philippe said flatly.

His words almost came as a relief. Erik nodded, mustering all of his strength to remain congenial. "That's quite understandable."

Philippe appeared startled by Erik's compliance. "As your employee, Monsieur, I fear there is little other choice. I realize my sister is quite fond of you, and given her age and your doubtless experience as a man of good name and position, you must understand the challenges she faces. If you do truly have her best interests in mind then I ask you—not as your employee, but as her brother—please confine your fondness for Sophia as a teacher to a student."

Erik stood rigid at the end of the hall, his brow furrowed.

"What if she weren't my employee?"

Philippe's eyes narrowed. He slowly shook his head. "You intend to let her go? As punishment…to me?"

"You have nothing to do with my decision," Erik replied, crossing his arms.

"Then what does, Monsieur? We cannot afford to remain here if you release her from her duties," Philippe stammered, his face flushed as he spoke.

Erik felt the pendulum swing in his favor. He stared at the floor and mulled over Philippe's desperate words.

He didn't need Philippe groveling at his feet. He didn't want to hold his status over Philippe's head as he knew that if he asked Sophia to marry him Philippe would not consent.

"If she were employed elsewhere…and if I had intentions of courtship, you would allow it?"

Philippe hesitated. "Possibly."

Erik considered Philippe's statement, reminding himself that he was doing everything he could to please Sophia.

"Very well."

"She'll never find employment elsewhere," Philippe blurted out. "If her vision becomes worse…"

"It may not," Erik retorted. It was possibly the most assenting comment he'd ever made, which surprised and delighted him. Perhaps there was a chance yet to abolish his cynicism.

"Well," Philippe retorted. "Only the Lord knows for certain, wouldn't you say?"

Erik grunted and returned to the parlor, feeling a sense of accomplishment in remaining civil toward Philippe.

Sophia rose to her feet the moment Erik walked in. She wrung her hands, her gaze switching back and forth between Erik and Philippe, who closed the door behind him and ran his hand through his dark hair.

"Must I return home?" she asked, looking to Philippe for answers.

Her brother sighed sat back in the arm chair. He closed his eyes and folded his hands. "Carry on. I have yet to hear you play."

"Truly?" Sophia beamed.

"Yes, yes, go on now. And play something…soothing. None of that brackish racket or whatnot," he snapped, his eyes opening briefly as he smiled at Sophia.

With a nod toward Sophia, Erik smiled and joined her at the piano. The composition he had searched for earlier was before him.

"It was stuck to another sheet," Sophia said.

She ran her finger along the top where "For Sophia" was hastily written. The moment Erik saw his handwriting he felt childish in his actions, but Sophia offered a warm, reassuring smile.

"I feel famous," she grinned. "No has ever written a song for me."

"Would you like to begin, Mademoiselle?" he asked.

With a closed-lip smile, she turned back to the piano. "I would rather hear you play the song you composed for me."

Sophia settled in closer to him, and without once looking at the sheet music Erik played for her, a song that was just as lively and soothing as she—a song that voiced how she made him feel—and how he wanted to feel for the rest of his life.


	44. In Lieu of a Kiss

Paladin44

The first few minutes were awkward, their encounters interrupted by Philippe clearing his throat each time Erik's shoulders touched Sophia's. At last Sophia turned and glared at her brother, which made him finally settle into his chair and stare at the ceiling.

The fact that Sophia acted so bold before her brother—and that Philippe made no argument—surprised Erik, but he said nothing and went forward with her lessons.

As the night wore on, Erik realized he was much more exhausted than he initially anticipated. He hid his first few yawns successfully, but after a while Sophia was also excusing herself as she turned away and fanned her face.

For the most part Erik was pleased with her progress, though he noticed she still preferred hearing him play rather than practicing herself. It didn't matter, he knew. She seemed quite honored to have a song of her own, and when he saw Sophia's smile he felt the greatest sense of pride he had ever experienced. It was then that he realized how he truly felt for her, that his emotions were garnered by something real, something tangible at last. In a matter of measures he fell for her, more completely than he thought was possible to feel close and connected to another human being.

As much as Erik wanted to say something, he felt Philippe's presence in the room, which kept him silent and at a respectable distance.

"We should call it an evening," Sophia suggested once she could no longer hide her exhaustion. "We're both clearly…not ourselves quite yet."

Erik nodded and glanced over his shoulder, finding Philippe with his chin resting against his chest. He turned to Sophia, who had also noticed her brother asleep.

"It appears some have already called it a night," Sophia whispered.

Erik nodded. "You should wake him."

Sophia looked to Philippe again and bit her lip. "I know my brother. He would prefer to rest his eyes for a moment longer."

Erik studied Sophia closely, noting the mischief in her gaze. At last he nodded as she tinkered with the piano, playing random notes to fill the space when neither of them spoke.

Without thinking Erik placed his hand over hers, which vanquished the soft music from the room. His heart beat so wildly in response to his brazen move that he heard nothing over the rush of blood. He waited, breath held, his hopes teetering on whether or not she allowed him one moment to merely touch her hand, to feel her soft skin and know without a doubt that she was real.

"Sophia," he whispered as her hand turned, fingers clasping his.

Fragments of unhappiness shattered inside him. His life, his pain, his hatred ebbed as he gazed into her eyes and saw the utter astonishment on her face.

Her shyness encouraged his confidence to return, and with one quick glance to make certain Philippe was still sleeping, Erik brought her hand to his lips and kissed her softly.

She trembled in his grasp, but her smile reassured him that she wasn't afraid of him. She was just as nervous and insecure, just as frightened as he was of losing something they both felt.

Erik studied her face, his gaze drawn to her swollen lip. The moment he saw the damage Karl Turro had done to her, he knew that he couldn't kiss her without causing her pain.

In lieu of a kiss, Erik settled for a tender caress. He grazed the backs of his fingers along her cheek, savoring their contact, at the way her expression softened. He watched her swallow as her eyes closed, her hand still clasped in his holding him tighter. He traced her chin, his fingers sweeping up to touch her other cheek. Careful to avoid her bruises, he trailed a line to her temple and the sensitive spot before her ear that made her inhale sharply.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, he kissed her hand again and felt her lean into him. She rested her cheek on his shoulder just long enough for him to hold her.

"I don't want you as my mistress," he whispered, kissing the shell of her ear.

She nodded. "I don't want to be your mistress," she confessed.

Erik was about to speak, but Philippe woke to the sound of Fidelio barking in the yard and announced that it was time to return home.

"What hour is it?" Philippe mumbled as he rubbed his eyes.

Erik shot back on the piano bench, catching himself before he fell over. "It's," he said, searching for his pocket watch. "It's almost midnight."

With a grunt Philippe rose to his feet. "Come, Sophia, it's late and you need your rest."

Sophia turned away from Philippe so that he couldn't see her blushing, though her hand remained in Erik's just long enough for her to squeeze his fingers.

"Tomorrow night, then?" she inquired.

Erik rose and saw her to the door. "If your brother gives his permission."

"Wiser words have never been spoken," Philippe said under his breath before he walked from the room. "Sophia, please."

Sophia lingered a moment longer. "Good night, Erik."

With a bow, Erik released her hand and nodded. "Sleep well, Sophia."

Now all he had to do was release her from employment.

-o-

Philippe walked in ahead of Sophia and turned up the lamps.

"It seems as though you play quite well," he said over his shoulder.

Sophia allowed herself to smile, but she checked herself and attempted to remain humble, fearing Philippe would suspect something from her demeanor.

"Modest, are you?" Philippe teased. He took Sophia's cloak and put it away for her before following her down the hall to their respective rooms.

"I'm still learning," Sophia answered.

Crossing his arms, Philippe leaned against the wall and nodded. "You will improve, I have no doubt."

Sophia looked away, startled by her brother's words. "Then I may continue my lessons?"

Philippe looked her over in silence, his eyes drawn first to her hands and then to her face. "As long as it remains musical endeavors and not whispers and inappropriate nonsense."

Sophia felt her heart stutter. Her mouth went dry and she forced a nod.

Philippe inhaled and shook his head. "Honestly, Sophia, did you think I would be so foolish as to nap when it's clear Monsieur Belmont wants more than a student to share his…musical…talent?"

Her cheeks reddened in a combination of anger and embarrassment.

With a finger to her chin, Philippe lifted her face. "I consented to your lessons because he expressed his true wishes, Sophia. But know that despite his best intentions of nobility and a proper courtship, he will not keep you as part of his staff if he decides to pursue you."

Sophia's eyes narrowed. "I don't understand."

"You are either a proper woman employed elsewhere whom he may pursue or you are a mistress beneath his roof. Those are your choices."

Sophia stared blankly at her brother. "Elsewhere?"

Philippe's expression softened. "I will contact Auntie. Perhaps she may have an idea. Get some rest, Sophia. We will discuss it tomorrow."


	45. Sleepless

Paladin

Karl Turro returned.

His harsh voice, his rough hands—all of him returned. His eyes locked on Sophia as he pulled her toward him.

"Let me go," she panicked, thrashing back and forth until Karl finally released her.

She ran the moment he released her, looking back only once to see if he was following her.

"I'm coming for you," he sneered as he watched her run away.

Sophia shot up in bed, holding back a scream of terror. Her eyes darted around her bedroom, searching the shadows for Karl Turro. She exhaled hard and realized how much she was trembling the moment she pulled the blankets around her and held them tight.

She knew she wouldn't fall asleep again for several hours, if she fell asleep at all. Even if Karl were a hundred miles away he would always be inside her mind, always watching her, threatening her.

"It's not fair," she whispered, feeling tears roll down her cheeks.

He had stolen her sense of security. He took away something that would never be replaced—something she was certain Philippe had not considered. He cared for her virtues and her well-being, but Sophia knew her brother was more relieved that he found her still clothed.

Sophia turned up her bedside lamp, hearing the light hiss as she rose from bed to search for a book. Reading would give her a headache, but she needed to keep her mind occupied. The last thing she wanted to do was think about Karl Turro.

She opened her bedroom door and listened for several seconds until she heard Philippe snoring. With him fast asleep, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and snuck down the hall.

Philippe had always enjoyed reading much more than Sophia, so the majority of books belonged to him. Naval books were a favorite of his, as well as architecture, and Sophia couldn't imagine two more boring subjects.

She perused his collection until she found _Great Expectations,_ dog-eared and hiding beneath magazines. Hugo and Twain slid off the shelf, which she nimbly caught before they fell to the ground. After unsuccessfully attempting to shelve the extra books, she sighed and scurried back to her bedroom with her newfound treasures.

She sat on her bed Indian style and began thumbing through the pages, skipping to her favorite parts. When she absently glanced up at her window she saw Erik's bedroom light on and furrowed her brow.

Why was he still awake? It was nearly two in the morning, a time when everyone should have been sound asleep.

Leaving her book, Sophia walked to her bedroom window and watched his silhouette. She pressed her hand to the glass and squinted, attempting to see what he was doing.

She couldn't tell what direction he was looking, but she felt a sense of comfort in knowing that he was awake at the same time she was, especially after the manner in which she had awakened. It was as though he was keeping guard over his land, wary of Karl Turro returning.

"We should both be asleep," she whispered.

Sophia worried about him. Not even a full day had passed since he had been terribly stricken with fever. He needed his rest, as he was still recovering.

Crossing her arms, she thought about the previous night. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, so many things she wanted to say to him. She wondered about the woman whose name he had spoken, about the marks on his back and his face. None of her questions were answered thanks to Philippe's presence during her lesson.

"Oh, Philippe," she sighed.

She knew her brother was right. There were only two choices, and neither seemed acceptable to her. She didn't want to leave the Manorand she knew it would be difficult,if not impossible,to find employment elsewhere. The changes to her vision had been slow, but she would have to memorize an entirely different layout if she were employed elsewhere.

With her index finger she traced a heart on the glass and thought about the composition Erik had played for her. She sighed to herself, and when she looked out to see if Erik was still standing in his window, she knew he was watching her.

Her hand fell away from the glass and she shifted her weight, seeing his head turn slightly. She swore he nodded to acknowledge her but she couldn't be certain.

Abandoning her books, she wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and left her room.

-o-

Erik couldn't sleep.

He was exhausted, but he couldn't close his eyes or slow his heart rate. Each time he looked at his bed and the dog sleeping in the middle he felt no desire to lie down. He'd never felt so restless in all of his life, though he knew exactly why he couldn't find peace.

He couldn't stop thinking of Sophia. He still felt her soft, smooth skin against his fingertips, smelled the honeysuckle scent of her hair. As much as he tried, he couldn't pinpoint what it was about her that made his stomach tighten. She was pretty, but not an extraordinary beauty. She was more gregarious than shy and not easily swayed. She was a change from anyone he had ever known.

With the house quiet and his staff retired for the night, Erik considered taking a walk. It was cold, but the snow had stopped falling. Perhaps the crisp air would bring him clarity—or at least tire him enough that he could finally sleep.

Erik went to the window and stared outside for a moment, considering whether or not he wanted to wear his mask. The sensitive spot below his right eye seemed more tender than normal, and the pain he once welcomed was becoming unbearable. He swore softly and gingerly touched his cheek, drawing his hand back immediately. His fingertips were red. The sore was still bleeding.

Again he thought of Sophia and her words. She was correct. His skin needed to breathe and he needed a chance to heal.

He was tired of the pain, of the reminders he forced upon himself. Paris was behind him. Christine was gone. It was time to abandon the past and search for his future.

His eyes flickered to the darkness outside his window. He blinked twice when he looked to Sophia's bedroom window, certain that his mind deceived him. He nodded and saw the shadow move.

"You should be sleeping," he murmured, seeing her step away.

He turned away from the window and grabbed his cape. Before he left his room he doubled back for his mask.

With a sigh of frustration, he donned the first article of clothing he had ever known and went on his way, Fidelio at his heels.

-o-

Sophia nearly fell as she struggled into a skirt and blouse she had hung up to dry by the hearth.

This was utterly ridiculous, she told herself, but nothing would keep her in her inside. Tying her hair back, she grabbed her cloak from the hook near the door and quietly walked outside.

She heard the front door of Erik's home open and close and she paused, recognizing him by his long legs and broad shoulders—and the skinny dog bounding around him on three legs, its tail wagging in delight of being outside in the snow.

"Why are you awake?" he asked as he approached.

"I woke and couldn't fall asleep again," she answered. "And you?"

He sighed and nodded.

"Are you going for a walk?" Sophia asked as she made a rut in the snow with her shoe.

Erik looked around the yard and nodded at last. "Not far," he answered, glancing at Sophia again. "You should not be away from home. Your brother will wake and worry."

Sophia ignored his comment and knelt, offering Fidelio her hand, which he washed for her before he flopped on his haunches and rested his injured paw.

"He seems to be feeling better, wouldn't you say?" she asked as she scratched the dog's head. "Or are you too stubborn to stay by the fire? Afraid your master will go off and have an adventure without you, eh Fidelio?"

Fidelio rolled onto his back, insisting that if she wanted to pet him she may as well scratch his belly and chest.

"What happened to his bandage?"

"He won't wear it," Erik murmured.

"Oh, I see," Sophia said, talking to Fidelio as if he were a baby. "You brave, brave boy."

She chuckled and looked up, finding Erik standing over them. There was a crooked dark line from his jaw down to his neck which drew her attention.

"What is that?" she asked.

His brow furrowed before he turned away and adjusted his mask.

Sophia rose to her feet. "You have something right here," she said, demonstrating on herself.

Erik withdrew his handkerchief and wiped his jaw and neck, and when he pulled the cloth away Sophia saw that it smeared.

"Are you…are you bleeding?"

He didn't answer immediately, which alarmed Sophia. She stepped closer and grabbed hold of his wrist so that she could see his handkerchief.

"It's the spot near your eye, isn't it?" she asked.

Erik didn't reply. He turned away from Sophia and lifted the mask, patting his face with the cloth while she nervously looked on.

"Yes," he said quietly.

Sophia sighed. "You shouldn't keep it covered," she reminded him. She paused and saw him lift his head, turning slightly so that he could see her from the corner of his eye. "It makes no difference to me."

His arms dropped to his sides and he turned to face her. "Are you certain?" he asked.

Sophia bristled at his tone of voice. When he fully faced her, she felt herself inhale sharply—and her reaction had nothing to do with his scars.

He was challenging her. She could see the belligerence in his eyes as he stood, his jaw tight and head cocked to the side. He wanted her to react, to prove her wrong.

She'd seen him upset before, but his eyes looked different to her. Beyond his anger and far beyond his desire to disprove her was his need to trust her.

Sophia thought about the scars between his shoulder blades, the evidence of suffering she couldn't possibly begin to understand.

"Sophia," he said under his breath, his eyes struggling to remain hard and callous.

"I'm positive, Erik," she said, boldly stepping forward and taking the handkerchief from his grasp. "Bend down. You've missed a little."

He pulled away slightly when she wiped his cheek and Sophia heard him breathing harder. She was breathing harder as well since they were standing so close to one another.

"There," she said breathlessly, feeling him leaning in closer. He smelled faintly of ink and cedar and his own masculine scent.

"Sophia," he whispered. He touched her cheek with the back of his hand and tilted his face toward hers. When he stood so close that Sophia felt his electricity connecting with hers, he hesitated.

Her lips parted and she nodded slowly, understanding what he wanted but feared to say. She needed him to realize that their feelings were mutual, that her opinion didn't change when the mask was removed.

Erik's eyes lowered when Sophia pressed the palm of her hand to his chest. She'd never felt anyone's heart beat so fast before in her life, but she smiled and stepped closer. She couldn't allow him to stop, not now.

Releasing all thought, Sophia placed her hands on his shoulders, closed her eyes and said two barely audible words.

"Kiss me."


	46. Stolen Moments in Darkness

Paladin

The wind blew snow from the rooftops and trees, sending a flutter of white around Erik and Sophia.

Erik planted a gentle kiss on the corner of Sophia's mouth. There he lingered, his arms at his side and his eyes open as he waited for her to pull away in complete disgust. His heart thudded loudly in his ears and he was hardly aware of anything around him. Fear gripped him, constricting his mind, paralyzing his body.

His life stood still, the next moment completely dependent on Sophia's reaction to his face.

Her nose rubbed against his and she grinned as she leaned into him. Eyes fluttering open, Sophia curled her fingers around his lapels. As she unexpectedly drew him nearer Erik blinked rapidly, startled by her response.

"You won't hurt me," she murmured as he abandoned his mask and gingerly placed his trembling hands on her shoulders.

He kissed her again, suddenly aware of her warmth and the taste of her lips. His hands slid across her upper back and brought her into a tender, careful embrace. He wanted to be careful because he didn't know how much Karl Turro had abused her and he didn't want to add to her suffering. He also wanted to allow her a chance to step back from him, as he feared she would suddenly look into his eyes and scream. If he were gentle, he reasoned, then she wouldn't have to struggle to escape.

With a soft sigh Sophia drew back and wrapped her arms around him.

"That was nice," she whispered as rested her head against his chest and placed her hand over his heart.

His trembling lessened the longer they stood and embraced one another. The fears he had carried since the night Christine left him slowly diminished, and as he came to realize that Sophia had no intention of fulfilling her destiny and abandoning him.

"You're just as nervous as I am," she murmured as she lifted her head and looked up at him.

"I apologize," he said under his breath as he looked away.

"There's no need to apologize," she replied. Her hand pressed firmly against his chest as she stood on the tips of her toes. Erik bent and kissed her forehead, which made Sophia smile. "I was afraid I would make a fool of myself by being so…presumptuous." She paused and blew a strand of hair from her eyes. "Was I?"

Erik shook his head, feeling a sense of gratitude for her boldness.

"It's been a long time," he mumbled.

Sophia frowned and he noticed that she shivered.

"You should return inside," he told her.

"I should," she agreed. "But I would like to stay a moment longer, if you wouldn't mind."

He looked into Sophia's eyes and wondered if he would ever recover the little scrap of worth he had clung to all of his life, the confidence Christine had stolen from him so many months ago. No, he told himself, he had given her his confidence just as she had given him her trust. In the end, they had broken one another.

"I would like you to stay a moment longer," Erik replied.

When he was with Sophia he realized how much he needed to have her not only love him, but befriend him. He wasn't sure which was more imperative: That she trusted him or that he was able to trust her.

Sophia tilted her face up again and leaned into him. Again he kissed her, gently still but fully on the lips. He felt her tongue against his mouth and his lips parted, tasting more of her.

And then she pulled away, her eyes gleaming and a blissful smile on her face. "I must go," she said. "Before Philippe wakes and finds me here."

Erik nodded, unable to speak. He still felt the warmth of her lips against his.

Voicing his disapproval, Fidelio let out a yawn and turned on his side to lick himself, which made Sophia cover her mouth in shock.

"You naughty little thing," she scolded, shaking her head.

"Fidelio!" Erik grumbled, tapping his hand against his leg.

The dog looked up quizzically. His right ear was backward and his tongue lolled out as he looked from Sophia to his master.

"I will see you in the morning," Sophia said as she turned and trotted back toward her home. She waved before she disappeared again.

For a long while after she left Erik stood and stared at his mask lying in the snow, at the face that was once his—which he no longer needed in Sophia's company.

-o-

From the dark line of trees overlooking Belmont Manor he watched the two lovers meeting secretly in the night. For Sophia he felt nothing but apathy, but for the man who embraced her?

Rage. All-consuming hatred for a man who wasn't whole and had no business removing Sophia from his grasp. True, in his eyes she was worthless, but that was of no concern.

He would make Sophia his. One way or another, Karl Turro was hell-bent on claiming her first and leaving her as nothing.

"No one crosses me," he mumbled as he turned away. "No one dares cross me."


	47. Consternation

Paladin 47

A week had passed and the snow had melted, quickly replaced by the last winter storm of the season.

Philippe apologized to Sophia one night following supper. He asked if she would discontinue her lessons for two nights in a row.

"Why?" she asked as she finished cleaning the dishes.

"Because I have work to do and I can't be there."

"To watch over me?" she asked, her words far too sharp for her brother. She knew he would be aggravated, but she didn't care. Her piano lessons were the only part of the day she looked forward to, and as dramatic as it sounded, she was prepared to tell Philippe that he may as well withhold food and water from her.

"To watch over him," Philippe said as he ran his hand over his face. "I would rather not argue with you, Sophia."

"Where will you be?"

"There are a few things I must see to tonight and tomorrow."

Sophia hated when he was elusive. She felt her shoulders bunch as she turned to face him. "What sorts of things?"

"Things."

Her jaw tightened. The plate in her hands nearly slipped from her grasp. "Such as?"

"It's really of no concern."

Sophia felt a little twist of fear in her gut. "But you'll be gone late. Why can't you do whatever this _thing_ is during the day?"

"My duties are here during the day."

"Erik, er, Monsieur Belmont will surely allow you a moment to attend to business during the day."

To that Philippe frowned and shook his head. "Asking for favors is a dangerous practice, especially when I know what he'd want as payment."

Sophia turned away, feeling her cheeks burn. "That's not true."

Philippe snorted before he walked out of the kitchen. "Not at all."

Once she finished the dishes, she called down the hall and told Philippe she was going to visit with Citrine for a moment. He grumbled a reply, which Sophia assumed was his blessing. She walked out of the house and stormed across the yard.

The darkness of night still frightened her, and as she approached the Manor she held her breath and flew through the kitchen door, scaring Citrine half to death.

"Little ghosts everywhere," Citrine said under her breath. "No dinner two nights in a row, Sophia?"

Sophia rolled her eyes. "Philippe is up to something. He's been very secretive tonight."

Citrine shrugged and took a seat at the kitchen table, gesturing to Sophia that if she wanted to sit and talk she could peel potatoes. Having nothing else to do and not wanting to be around Philippe, she picked up a knife and sat down.

"He's probably worried," Citrine said once Sophia joined her.

Sophia nodded, stubbornly refusing to say a word.

"You realize he has a good reason to be worried, don't you?"

"Yes," Sophia said under her breath. "But he's not said a word about…him."

"He doesn't need to say it. You're both thinking it. Monsieur Belmont is probably thinking it too."

Sophia glanced at Citrine, who was too busy chopping carrots to look up.

Swallowing hard, Sophia placed her knife gently on the table. "I still hear his voice even when I'm working. I thought by now it would have stopped."

Citrine frowned. "If you want to sleep in my room, Sophia, you're more than welcome. I wouldn't mind."

"It will pass," Sophia mumbled. She was ashamed of herself for what had happened and the last thing she wanted was to trouble others with her nightmares. Though she knew Citrine was only trying to help, she couldn't bear the thought of sharing something so terrible—or worse—expecting them to guide her through this mess she had created.

"You know Monsieur Belmont is in the parlor?" Citrine commented. "He knew your lesson was cancelled, but he still came down to work on something. There are cookies for him on the dining room table. Would you take them to him?"

Sophia saw the mischief in Citrine's eyes and grinned back. "You better caw like a crow to warn me if Philippe comes into the house."

Citrine chuckled. "He won't suspect a thing," she winked. "Leave the door open. It will save you trouble. It will save all of us trouble.

-o-

"Hush," Erik said as the last notes diminished and Fidelio let out a low, wistful howl.

With a chuckle Erik patted Fidelio's large head and sighed. Now that his paw was healed and he was gaining weight, his puppy playfulness was without end. Erik found he absently wrote with his right hand and allowed Fidelio to tug on his left sleeve or clasp his fist. That was, of course, when Fidelio allowed him to sit at all.

For three days Erik threatened to tie Fidelio to a tree or banish him to the cellar when the pup barked at his newfound playmate, but Erik assumed the dog knew they were idle threats.

Though he couldn't recall with concrete certainty, Erik was fairly certain that he had once owned a dog. He seemed to recall playing games of tug-of-war and the warm, wet kisses only a canine companion could issue. Like most of his life it was a muddled thought, but he wished he could recall more of these intangible memories.

There were too few bright spots in the darkness, little stars he needed to recover, to piece together in the vast nothingness he saw with unmatched clarity. He knew instinctively that there were times when he had been content, that this misery was not the only emotion he knew well.

How could there not be something else? He recognized the comfort he felt with Sophia near him, and in a way he felt something akin to Citrine as well, though he purposely kept a distance from her. It was foolish, he told himself, as he was a grown man and he shouldn't have been so socially inept. He felt like an ignorant child bumbling his way through a world everyone else mastered. It was merely another way in which he was different from society, another missing piece in the puzzle that prevented him from fitting into the whole.

Once he released Sophia, he feared that boundless confusion and alienation would plague him again, strangling him until, defeated, he returned to solitude.

Fidelio, sensing his master's unsettled heart, gave another howl, urging Erik to play another song.

"You didn't like the first one," Erik mumbled, turning the page. He paused, hearing the door creak open and knowing it wasn't a draft. "Listening outside the door tonight?" he questioned without turning.

"How do you always know?" Sophia asked through the crack in the door. "It's as though you're a mind reader."

Erik glanced at her from over his shoulder and saw her frown at the sight of his mask. "No mind reading," he answered. "Trained ears."

She nodded and stepped into the room, leaving the door wide open behind her. He noticed that she was extremely pale, her lips drawn unusually tight. Her bruises and cuts were almost healed now but she appeared in pain.

"I cannot stay for my lesson. I merely came to pay Citrine a visit and she said you were downstairs. I hope I'm not intruding upon your work."

His gaze left her face and fixed on the plate of cookies, which made his mouth water. He was beginning to think that Citrine wanted to fatten him like a hog. By spring he would undoubtedly have an apple in his mouth while she prepared to roast him slowly over a fire.

"These are from Citrine," Sophia said as she placed the plate on the serving table and brushed her hands against her skirt. "I should have brought you something to drink as well."

"I'm fine." He paused, attempting to go through the motions of a conversation, which he realized he hadn't accomplished yet. Keenly aware of himself, he knew it would be impossible not to stumble over his words. He wanted everything to be perfect, to conquer a world he didn't know.

"Oh. Good."

"How are you?" he asked. Erik hadn't seen her for the majority of the day, making their conversation the first one since the previous night. Her brother had kept her downstairs and busy for the entire morning and afternoon, and by evening when they were both done with their chores he'd called her straight home to help him around their house.

Sophia glanced behind her before she answered. "I'm a little tired. How are you?"

"Fine."

She waited a moment, but Erik couldn't think of anything else to say. He cleared his throat, his mind blank and heart wildly thudding in his chest. There were so many clever words he thought of when she wasn't around, but each idea suddenly abandoned him when she was near. She tangled his thoughts.

"I hear Fidelio is quite the music critic," Sophia said at last, laughing softly.

"Ah, yes," Erik answered, grateful that she was gregarious. "Yes, he is."

"What do you think it means when he howls? Does he show appreciation?"

"I think he wants me to stop," Erik replied with a shy smile.

"Or maybe he wants voice lessons."

Erik reached down and patted Fidelio's head, earning a tail wagging of appreciation that shook the wolfhound's whole backside.

"I think he would prefer if I threw him a ball."

Sophia nodded and smiled. "His paw looks much better. You take good care of him."

Words escaped him again and Erik trained his gaze safely on Fidelio, who had rolled onto his back and yawned.

"I bore him," Erik said under his breath.

Sophia laughed. "I suppose I won't have to concern myself over being replaced by Fidelio."

"Not at all," Erik replied as he rose to his feet.

Sophia blushed at his words. Her reaction prompted him to continue, as he wanted to please her.

"I've only tutored voices before. Teaching piano is a different challenge."

Sophia's grin widened. "My brother would agree that I'm very challenging."

"No, no, that isn't what I—"

"I know. It was a jest. It was silly."

Erik shivered, sensing his failure. "I didn't realize," he said quietly.

"You're very kind to me," Sophia said, finding her way into his arms.

His nervousness dissipated once he felt her close to him. He lost himself in the smell of her hair and the warmth of her soft frame. She made him feel strong again, capable and worthy of her affection. Everything about her was soothing, as though Sophia being near him was permission enough for him to relax. He considered removing his mask, as his skin was still quite aggravated with it in place, but he knew Citrine was down the hall and that Rene and Gabe might enter the house at any time.

"To be cruel to you, Sophia, is an unimaginable crime," he whispered.

Sophia pressed her hands against his back, holding him tighter. His insides filled with warmth, with true elation. No matter how many times he looked at Sophia, Erik found it impossible to believe that she was still real. He wondered if he would always feel this way or if he would one day look at her and feel more security than gratitude.

"When must I stop working for you?" she asked.

For a long while Erik remained silent. "I don't know yet," he said at last. "I haven't thought about it." He couldn't bear to tell her that he'd spent his day wondering what would happen, assuming she would find employment—and a suitor—elsewhere.

"But soon?"

Erik nodded.

"But my brother will remain under your employment?"

"Of course."

Lifting her face, Sophia kissed him gently on the cheek. "I should return home before Philippe worries."

Erik slowly released her, finding that her fingers still clung to him. He sensed that there was more she wanted to tell him but he had no idea how to question her. He feared she would become angry with him if he turned too overbearing.

"Shall I walk you out?" he asked.

Her eyes brightened and she nodded. "I would like that."

Offering his arm, Erik found a glimmer of hope, of triumph, and a small missing piece of the puzzle returned to him.

-o-

"Lock the doors when I leave," Philippe instructed once Sophia returned.

Sophia nodded, following him into the kitchen. "How long will you be gone?"

"Not long," he answered. "And, if I may remind you, know that I may return at any moment."

To that Sophia stifled a laugh. "You've simply ruined my intentions for this evening."

Philippe glared at her but saw the worry in her eyes.

"Go to sleep. You won't notice that I'm gone," he said gently. "I've asked Gabe and his father to keep an eye on the house while I'm away."

"Oh?"

"It's sensible," he snapped.

Sophia frowned. "I didn't say anything," she said softly.

Philippe nodded, realizing he was more nervous than he first thought. Even if he only intended to be away from home for a couple of hours, it was ample time for something to happen to his sister.

His expression softened. "For your protection, of course."

Her eyes turned down at his words. "I see."

Looking away, Philippe reached for his coat. "You know that I care a great deal for you, Sophia. It is imperative that I have your cooperation tonight."

"Philippe!" Sophia shouted as he reached for the doorknob.

He turned, seeing the fear on her face.

"You don't think he'll…"

Philippe felt his heart ache. "Lock the doors. I'll ask Citrine to stay with you."

Before she could protest he was gone.


	48. Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Paladin 48

Erik woke at his desk with a start, his arms flailing and his hands immediately drawn to his uncovered face. A horse whinnied in the distance and drew his attention, its hooves trampling the frozen earth.

For several wild heartbeats he sat very still, unsure of whom or what he expected. His palms were sweaty, his hands trembling as his dreams faded.

With a soft curse, he eased back in his chair and harnessed his ragged breaths, the lulling tick of the clock on the mantel reassuring him that he was in his own home.

The thought of owning a home—a real home above the ground—still hadn't fully sunk in, but he discovered he was slowly growing accustomed to his surroundings. He simply needed to adjust. Months had passed since his arrival at the Manor and he still hadn't fully explored the grounds.

For Erik, sunlight in the morning still came as a surprise, as did fresh air. Those were both amenities people took for granted; small, insignificant joys that Erik now cherished.

The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was thinking that he would feel summer sunlight on his hands. He hadn't felt midday sun on his skin since he was a child. The thought left him contented after the hours he spent tormenting himself over Sophia. He didn't want her to leave, but he saw no other choice. He wondered if she would still be in his life when there was sunlight to share.

Erik stood up and sighed, thinking that he should retire for the night. He scratched his shoulder and froze in place as the pads of his fingers grazed over an old scar.

The reason for his sudden waking rushed back into his memory and caused him to shudder. He didn't want to think about the origins, but he couldn't move his hand away from his shoulder.

He thought of Sophia and the night he had taken to a fever and wondered if she had seen his old injuries. In shame he lowered his head and swallowed hard. She had seen them, he knew. Just as she had viewed his unmasked face, she had seen the savage scars along his upper back.

Though it was late, he went to his window and saw that Sophia's home was dark and there was no sign of her standing at her window. He watched the stillness of the night until Fidelio licked his hand and startled him. With a joyless smile he scratched Fidelio's head and turned to the door. It was almost one in the morning and he was exhausted, but he knew the dog would be whining all night if he didn't have a moment to himself in the yard.

"Come on then," Erik sighed.

-o-

Philippe left his horse at the end of the long drive and traipsed through the trampled snow. His eyes were fixed on the weather-beaten sign, his insides filled with disappointment. He shivered in the cold, crisp night, but he was determined to speak with his uncles.

The vineyards meant nothing to them. They were Duprees, but Philippe had learned from an early age that his uncles were worthless, lazy men who depended on their brother for financial stability. It wasn't until his father had become ill that Philippe understood how much of the profits went directly into his uncles' pockets. At first he was shocked, but his mood swiftly changed to anger.

Philippe seethed as he thought of them congratulating one another over their newly inherited property. Uncle Bernard and Uncle Claude thought they could sit back and allow the vineyard to care for itself.

"Fools," Philippe spat as he stalked up the drive.

It angered him much more that Karl Turro would own their land, thanks to his uncles' debts. And now there was no possibility of the Duprees managing the winery.

Swallowing his pride, Philippe knocked on the door. He held his breath and waited until Uncle Bernard opened the door.

"I want the vineyard," Philippe said before his uncle could speak. "And I don't care what I have to do to obtain it."

-o-

Fidelio bayed, his triumphant sound of being released from the house, followed by Erik grumbling for him to quiet down. Sophia heard the noise outside and placed her book on the parlor's side table and rose to her feet.

"Don't go outside," Citrine murmured in her sleep. "I'd prefer Philippe didn't slaughter me when he returns home."

"I won't," Sophia replied. She covered Citrine with another blanket and left her in her chair.

Padding down the hall, Sophia pressed her hands to the cool glass of her bedroom window and gazed outside, watching as Erik stood in the yard, his cloak bundled around him. He kicked at the hardened snow as he waited and turned his back to the wind.

Tail wagging, Fidelio dragged a stick as long as his body to his master and presented it with enthusiasm. He hopped around, still careful of his injured paw, and barked at Erik.

Sophia smiled to herself as she watched the two. Erik clearly found Fidelio's intentions to be utterly ridiculous, and as he crouched down and attempted to take the stick, Fidelio jumped forward and snatched it back, his rear in the air and tail furiously whipping back and forth.

Though it was too dark to tell for sure, Sophia swore she saw Erik smile at the dog's antics as he broke the stick in half and threw it across the yard. Delighted, Fidelio tore across the yard and began shaking the stick in his mouth as he ran around the open space.

Sophia tapped on the window and immediately garnered Erik's attention. He raised his hand to his face briefly but dropped both arms to his sides before he walked toward her window.

Flipping the latch, Sophia opened the window. "You must never sleep," she said.

Erik nodded. "And you as well." He paused. "Philippe is gone?"

She smiled and folded her arms on the sill. "He said he won't be long."

"Where has he gone?"

Sophia exhaled. "He wouldn't tell me."

Erik nodded in silence as he continued to kick the snow and shuffle about.

"I thought you might take a walk tonight."

Erik turned and watched Fidelio investigate the smoke shed, the stick abandoned in the snow in favor of sniffing for rabbits. "He needed to be out." He shrugged and glanced at her before he turned away. "He has more energy than I do."

Sophia nodded and pursed her lips. She'd been waiting for him to walk outside since Philippe left, but she didn't want to seem obvious.

"Would you like company?" _That wasn't obvious,_ she berated herself.

He turned to face her quickly, his eyes wide. "I'll be returning inside once he's finished. It's far too cold and windy for a walk or…well…to meet outside."

Sophia gave a closed-lip smile as Erik wandered closer to the window.

"Did Fidelio wake you?"

"No," he answered. Sophia fidgeted with her sleeves, hoping he would say something more. "I woke myself…I mean to say, I woke at my desk."

"Philippe used to do that when he was balancing ledgers for the vineyard. He was very worried about the finances and production."

"Then perhaps in the spring I will have him oversee the orchards."

Sophia nodded readily. "He would like that, truly he would. He's not comfortable with…well…I'm not sure, really," she stumbled. Philippe would roast her if he discovered she was talking about him.

"With working for me," Erik said.

"Not you in particular. It could be anyone and he would…Oh, forget I said anything of him. It's just that…he wants what he once had."

Erik nodded, his eyes filled with understanding. "I will ask him tomorrow if he would manage the orchards. I have no experience with ledgers and the like."

"Have you always been a composer?" Sophia asked.

Erik bundled himself tighter. His cheeks were red from the cold, his eyes glassy from the wind. "I've been many things," he answered.

Sophia noted his arrogant tone and found her interest piqued. He'd been so shy around her that it was a welcomed change to see him display restored confidence. By size alone he was imposing, but when she looked at him, Sophia also saw his insecurities. Somehow, she had to ignore his fear and dote on his strength.

"You will have to tell me about it one evening," she said.

They gazed at one another for a moment before Erik glanced away. "I should take Fidelio inside," he said.

"Good night," she smiled.

Erik stepped close enough to grasp her hand. His icy touch made her jump in surprise and he apologized immediately as he pulled away from her. His arrogance was gone and once again he stood before her, a man replaced by a shadow.

im"Cold hands," she said, extending her hand to ho. "Warm heart."

His lips straightened briefly before he gave a weak smile. Their fingers touched and he squeezed her hand before at last bringing it to his lips. "Good night."


	49. Philippe's Mission

I will be out of town next week and won't be updating until probably next Friday. Thanks.

Paladin 49

"Why won't you tell me what happened?" Sophia asked.

Philippe sat in the kitchen with his back to her. He didn't answer, which he knew would further upset her.

"Philippe!"

"Do I need stitches or not?" he growled, slamming his palm on the table.

Marching around to face him, Sophia tilted his chin up and examined his left eye. Her mouth was set in a scowl, but the deep wrinkle in her forehead betrayed her concern.

"No, but I have half the mind to stitch you up anyway until you tell me what happened."

"You cannot return home in the middle of the night—barely able to walk, mind you—and expect to have me turn my face."

Philippe exhaled. "I'm walking fine."

Sophia grunted. "You were limping this morning. Even Citrine saw it."

Philippe ignored her. He thought Sophia was becoming an exact replica of their mother, passion and all.

"Where did you go last night?"

"On business," he answered.

Sophia pressed a rag to his brow. "What business?"

Wincing, Philippe snatched the rag from her hands and slumped in his chair. "I'll take care of myself."

"And tonight? Are you leaving again?"

Philippe glowered. "Men have business that is their own," he said, but he knew he hadn't heard the end of it. Sophia was going to give him hell for the remainder of the day and quite possibly until the end of his life, which he expected her relentless nagging would bring him to sooner than later.

"Is it a woman? Oh, Philippe, what are you doing?" Sophia gasped, sitting down beside him. Her anger quickly dissipated in exchange for heartsick romance. Philippe couldn't help but smile.

"I will be fine. It was merely a misunderstanding?"

"With whom? Her father or brothers?"

Philippe cleared his throat. "An uncle, as chance would have it." He rose to his feet. "Now if you will excuse me, I'm going to lie down for an hour before I start my day."

Sophia rose with him, and he knew by the expression on her face that he hadn't convinced her. He kissed her forehead and held her tight, knowing in his heart that he was willing to die for her. She thought he was an overbearing, stubborn, apathetic man. If he had his druthers he would never reveal what he did for her. It wasn't in his nature to expect anything in return. As her brother, Philippe looked at Sophia and thought of her as his responsibility—one that he would not pass off on anyone.

"Don't leave tonight," Sophia said, clinging to his arm. "I worry about you."

"You shouldn't," he said before he returned to his room. He shut the door and flexed his hand, which was sore from returning Uncle Bernard's punch. Bernard deserved what he had coming to him and more. If anyone else thought Sophia was little more than a pawn, Philippe would beat the holy hell out of them.

Tonight he hoped to have that chance.

-o-

Erik woke later than normal feeling peaceful and refreshed. Unaccustomed to both feelings, he remained in bed for a long time, his left arm fraught with pins and needles thanks in part to Fidelio's massive head sitting on the crook of his elbow.

Allowing Fidelio to sleep on the bed was beginning to seem like a mistake—not that Erik felt he had any choice. Attempts at ignoring the dog went unnoticed, and pushing him onto the floor proved to be a temporary fix. Tall enough to stand on the floor and be eye-level with his master, Erik couldn't sleep when he knew two sad brown eyes were staring at him.

Fully awake, he wondered what the opera managers would have done if they had known that their frightful ghost was easily swayed by a moping dog.

He nudged Fidelio onto the floor and sat up in bed. Though it had been several days since he had awakened and donned his mask, he still groped for it on the nightstand and surprised himself when it wasn't there.

With his skin able to breathe, the wound below his right eye had sealed as it finally begun to heal. The pain lessened, and the headaches it had caused—which he'd grown accustomed to over the months—went away.

Erik took a deep breath and sat up in bed. He heard Philippe's voice downstairs and expected he would see his butler soon, which reminded him of the conversation he and Sophia had enjoyed late in the night.

Just as he had explained to Sophia, he had no desire to balance books and record sales. They were of no interest to him, but from what Sophia had said it was something that Philippe had at least done in the past, if not enjoyed.

Of course, Philippe was not a foolish man and Erik expected that Sophia's brother would immediately assume that the offer was meant to put him in Philippe's good graces. Erik's only hope was that Philippe didn't find the offer insulting or too presumptuous.

Once he took his mask from the top drawer in his bureau, Erik dressed and unlocked his door. Fidelio immediately ran down the stairs and Erik heard Citrine letting him outside for the morning. She yelled at the dog to stay away from lunch, which he assumed meant that one of the chickens had met its demise at dawn.

"Excuse me, Citrine," Philippe said from the bottom of the stairs.

Erik left the bedroom door ajar and went to his desk to straighten his sheet music from the previous night. He heard Philippe's heavy footsteps and an equally harsh knock on the door.

"Come in," Erik said, glancing over his shoulder to acknowledge Philippe.

Monsieur Dupree entered and shut the door. "Good morning, Monsieur Belmont."

Erik attempted to stop himself from staring, but it was impossible to draw his gaze away from Philippe's deeply bruised eye. The blood vessels in the white of his eye had burst, which was painful for Erik to look at without his own eyes tearing up.

"Good…morning," Erik stuttered.

Philippe nodded to acknowledge his injury and exhaled. "A misunderstanding," he said.

"A painful one," Erik said under his breath.

"Yes, Monsieur, but not one which will affect my duties here, I assure you."

Erik turned his chair to face Philippe but drew his eyes away. "In fact, I was hoping to discuss your duties today."

From the corner of his eye, Erik saw Philippe bristle.

"Have I displeased you, Monsieur?"

Erik chose to ignore Philippe's words. He turned to face him, but avoided Philippe's right eye. "I am requesting that you consent to my business proposal. I would like you to take full control of the orchards," he stated.

Philippe said nothing at first, and Erik wasn't certain if that was in his favor or not.

"Full control?"

"Yes, full control."

"And my compensation?"

Erik turned back to his desk and wryly smiled. He hadn't given Philippe's pay much thought, but he knew he should have expected Monsieur Dupree to be thinking of his livelihood.

"Shared profits sounds reasonable," Erik answered, "in conjunction with your current compensation—possibly more if I find your work impressive."

Again Philippe was silent. Erik heard Fidelio's nails scrape the wooden stairs as he returned to his master's side and plopped on the floor. Erik glanced down and noticed blood on his snout and assumed the dog had taken the liberty of investigating around the chicken which had probably been left to bleed out. With his canine grin, Fidelio licked his chops and rested on his side, clearly exhausted from his morning activities.

"What percentage?" Philippe asked.

"I haven't yet decided."

"But you expect me to agree at once?"

Erik found he wasn't in the mood to argue. He closed his eyes, yawned and took up a pen to occupy himself. "You may consider it at your own leisure. Being that it is still winter, I doubt there is currently much tending needed, but I would like your answer within thirty days."

"My answer will come once I am aware of the percentage you intend to pay. There are orchards of apples, plums, apricots, and pears. There are a few cherry trees as well, and pecans, if I'm not mistaken. You see, Monsieur, this is not a small undertaking. If you wish anyone to take up the position you best be willing to pay handsomely for the duty to be done correctly."

Erik opened his desk drawer and thumbed through his bank book. Somewhere in the parlor there were old records of profits and expenses for the property, but he hadn't concerned himself with those. With his own funds from his years of haunting securely invested and maturing, Erik couldn't have cared less about the orchards. Calculating his expenses, he knew he could live comfortably for the next fifteen years without selling a single piece of music.

"Will you guarantee me a profit?" Erik asked.

Philippe's chest puffed out. "Naturally."

There was no way Philippe could guarantee such a thing. Too much rain, too little rain, a late start to spring or an early winter would factor into how well the orchards did come harvest time. However, Erik appreciated Philippe's confidence.

"Half," Erik said.

"Pardon me?"

"Agree to manage the property and I will allow you half the profit on top of your salary."

His statement silenced Philippe, though this time Erik felt his butler's jubilation fill the room. Still, just as Erik expected, Philippe quelled his enthusiasm and returned with a calculated question.

"And my sister? Is she to be part of your payment?"

"She's not property and she's certainly not livestock," Erik answered.

At last, Philippe seemed satisfied. "I will give my answer tomorrow morning," he said before he left.


	50. Opportunity

Paladin 50

Sophia shrieked when Philippe grabbed her around the waist and spun her in a circle. He set her down on the kitchen floor and turned her to face him.

"Half," he said.

Her brow furrowed. "You make no sense, Philippe. You've clearly lost your mind," she said under her breath as she hit him with a kitchen towel.

"Half the profits from the orchards," Philippe smiled, barely able to contain himself. He grabbed Sophia by the shoulders and gently shook her. "That was his promise."

"Eri…Monsieur Belmont?" she questioned.

"Yes, just now," Philippe said. He licked his lips and sighed. "Do you have any idea what that means?"

"No, do you?"

Philippe paused. "Not yet, but I'm riding to the east side of the manor now to look through the ledgers."

"Right now?"

"Yes, right now!" Philippe exclaimed as he trotted through the kitchen doorway and down the hall. "Would you care to join me?"

"Honestly?" Sophia called after him. "Not in the least. I hate that old, dusty house. It's damp, drafty…" She shivered in disgust. "I'll stay here, thank you."

Philippe appeared in the doorway again and hung from the frame like a monkey. "You best get used to it, Sophia. If I'm controlling the orchards for Monsieur Belmont that dusty, drafty house will be our new home."

Sophia made a face but chose to keep silent. She was glad to see Philippe excited about something at last and didn't want to destroy his good mood with complaints.

"You must do something about your eye. It looks terrible," she commented. "Does it hurt?"

Philippe shook his head. "I'm fine."

"Does this make you and Erik partners now?" Sophia asked.

Philippe shrugged and turned to leave again. With a chuckle, Sophia decided to follow him into the hall. She stopped outside his door when she saw him pull his shirt over his head and close the door.

"I suppose it does in a way," he shouted.

"Why would he make you his partner?" Sophia asked as she leaned against the wall.

"He said he has no desire to manage it himself."

Sophia bit the inside of her cheek. "And you accepted his offer?"

"Not yet," Philippe answered. "It's not wise to accept an offer immediately. I don't want him to think I'm too eager."

"But you will take it, won't you?" Sophia asked the door.

The door opened and Philippe appeared again, still appearing quite satisfied. He had changed into an older shirt and overcoat for traveling across the property. "Yes, I believe I will. Look at his place, Sophia, there must be money here in these trees."

Sophia smiled and poked Philippe in the chest. "What will you do if he offers it to someone else?"

Philippe held her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Who else does he know? The man rarely leaves his room, let alone his house."

Heat ran up the back of Sophia's neck and she swatted her brother's hand away. "He offers you this and you respond like a callow child," she hissed as she stormed back to the kitchen. "Really, Philippe."

Her brother trailed at her heels and easily caught up to her before she passed through the threshold. Philippe grabbed hold of Sophia's wrist and she reluctantly stopped and faced him.

"I meant nothing malicious by my words," he said, which Sophia knew was as close to an apology as she was going to receive—though Philippe really didn't owe her an apology for being so crass.

Sophia exhaled. "Fine."

Before she could move, Philippe stepped in front of her. "Do you love him?" he blurted out.

Sophia met Philippe's eyes. "All that I know of him," she answered.

-o-

With Philippe off to browse through the orchard's ledgers, Sophia decided to have dinner with Citrine.

"Me?" Citrine said. She snorted at Sophia and shook her head. "Ha!"

"Oh, hush," Sophia said as she slid into her seat. "We are friends, aren't we?"

"Monsieur Belmont hasn't made a peep all day. You should see if he needs anything."

Sophia rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Citrine."

Citrine grinned. "Fine, but I do need to send his dinner upstairs…unless you would like to ask if he will take his dinner downstairs," she suggested.

Pushing her chair back, Sophia set her napkin on the dining room table. "I will ask him which he prefers."

-o-

Erik busied his evening by reading on his bed and using Fidelio as a reluctant pillow. After whining a while, Erik gave the dog two choices: Stay on the bed and tolerate a head resting on his belly, or sleep on the floor. Fidelio chose to remain on the bed.

With his eyes growing heavy, the pages began to blur and the passages no longer made sense. Erik glanced at the clock and wondered if Citrine intended on feeding him supper tonight. He sighed to himself and Fidelio released a low growl followed by a pathetic whine.

"Hungry?" he asked.

Fidelio answered with another whine.

Sitting up, Erik patted the dog's side. "Still skin and bones," he muttered under his breath. "I've been to countries where they ate dogs."

To that, Fidelio pawed at Erik's sides in protest.

"Fat dogs," Erik said with a smile. He chuckled to himself, feeling content—aside from his hunger pangs. Fidelio was a quiet joy, one which Erik wished he had encountered throughout his life. He had never expected to find so much relaxation and ease in the presence of a creature covered in hair.

Fidelio nudged Erik's hand, instructing his master to pet him. Before he rose to replace the book on his desk, Erik obeyed and scratched Fidelio behind the ears.

It was then that he heard a loud thump outside his door. Tossing the book aside, he made his way to the bedroom door, with Fidelio close at his heels.

"Are you hurt?" Erik heard Citrine question.

"No, no," Sophia answered quietly. Erik opened the door and found her picking herself up from the stairs. "I lost my footing, that's all. I'm fine."

She smiled half-heartedly, obviously embarrassed by her mishap. Erik watched her in silence, struggling to not pity her for her condition. He had forgotten that her eye troubled her, as she rarely showed signs of impairment.

Sophia found him staring at her and brushed her skirts with her hands. "Pardon me, Monsieur," she said.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked as she limped into his room. He left the door open purposely as he had no idea where Philippe was and didn't want to find out when Sophia's brother came rapping at the door to protect his sister's honor.

"No, I'm fine," Sophia answered quickly, though she continued to favor her left leg. She attempted to mask her grimace, but Erik saw her brow pinch with agony.

"Sit," he said before Fidelio jumped on her.

Both Sophia and Fidelio obeyed at once. Erik found himself amused, but cleared his throat to hide his growing smile. Sophia, however, realized what he meant and fanned her ever-reddening face.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Erik walked toward Sophia and took a seat beside her.

"Citrine sent me up to ask you where you would like to take your supper. We are sitting together in the kitchen, but of course you would take your meal in the dining room."

"I prefer eating here," he said. He swallowed and took a deep breath. "With you," he added brazenly. His words punched all the air from his lungs.

Sophia nodded. "Then I shall bring your food to you."

Erik glanced at the service table. Since he was always so quiet, Citrine had brought him a bell to ring for his meals and for anything else he may need throughout the day. He had heard her mumbling to herself that she wanted to tie a bell around his neck, as he was far too quiet for her liking and she thought she would die of fright if he continued to walk as silently as a ghost through the house again.

"I see Citrine brought you the bell," Sophia commented.

"Yes," he said, turning his attention to her again. The buzzer for the kitchen had been broken since the day he had arrived.

"Will you use it?"

"Never."

Sophia giggled to herself. "Yes, I told her it was an absurd idea, but she thought it would be useful." She moved her chair closer to his and looked up at him shyly. "Philippe said that you offered him a management position in the orchards."

Erik nodded. "I did. He has yet to answer."

They stared at each other for a moment in silence until Erik realized the look in her eyes was indiscernible. He cleared his throat again and looked away, feeling the back of his neck burn. He didn't so much as feel uncomfortable as he felt uncertain.

"He will," Sophia said.

Erik looked at her, then at Fidelio, who was sitting between them looking his usual jovial self. With his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth and his ears pricked up, he appeared to be waiting for something to happen.

"Lie down," Erik said, snapping his fingers.

Sophia laughed. "You need to specify, Monsieur, unless you want me to lie down for you."

Erik couldn't bring himself to look at her, though he knew by the gasp she released that she was horrified by her own words.

"You understand what I meant, Monsieur…Erik."

He waited, hoping that the moment would quickly pass. The longer they sat in silence the more he mulled over her unintended suggestion. Images filled his thoughts, the next one more inappropriate than the previous one. Erik turned and grabbed his forgotten book merely to give the appearance of doing something meaningful while he continued to think of her on his bed, in his arms, by his side.

"Have you ridden to the old house on the other side of the orchards?" Sophia asked.

Erik shook his head. "I didn't know there was one, truthfully."

"Ah, yes, it's been abandoned for quite some time. Philippe is there now."

"In the dark?" Erik questioned.

Sophia nodded. "He left some time ago. He wanted to go through the old record books."

"He is considering my offer then?"

"Yes, of course. You offered him half the profits. He would be a fool not to consider your proposal."

Erik grunted. His eyes were fixed on Sophia's hands joined in her lap. She had scraped her knuckles, presumably from her fall.

Once Sophia realized what he was staring at, she attempted to hide her injury. "I should bring your food up before it gets cold," she said as she rose to her feet.

Erik rose with her and found himself inches away from Sophia. She lowered her eyes but stepped forward until he could feel the warmth of her body and smell the perfume in her hair.

"Philippe says we will move to the old overseer's house," she said quietly.

"Across the estate?"

"Yes," she whispered.

His hand brushed against hers before their fingers intertwined. Tilting her face up, Sophia looked into his eyes and stood on the tips of her toes.

Everything happened so quickly that Erik was barely aware of himself or his surroundings. His arms wrapped around Sophia, his lips finding hers in one frantic, needy moment of complete disregard of sanity and self-control.

There were no more shy glances or awkward moments of silence. Erik knew what he wanted, what he had always wanted, and he felt it come willingly into his grasp. His hand ran up and down the length of Sophia's back, fingertips memorizing how soft she felt, how wonderful it was to have her in his arms.

With a soft sigh, she clutched the back of his coat and drew him nearer, allowing him one fevered moment of feeling the fullness of her breasts against his chest. Fire roared through him, stopping at the places within him that had been dormant for far too long, igniting desires in him long since denied.

Hands trembling, Erik pressed Sophia to him and savored the taste of her mouth against his, wanting to experience much more than the open bedroom door allowed. Their lips lingered for several heartbeats, their deep, lusty kiss turning to shorter, sweeter, more contented pecks. Sophia parted her lips to his and gently touched his tongue with hers, which was the single greatest feeling Erik could possibly imagine. He wondered if she felt it too, the passing to her of his heart and soul and all of the suffering he had felt in his lifetime, submissively asking for her acceptance.

His heart was pounding when Sophia backed away and looked at him, her swollen lips forming a shy smile. She kept her hands on his shoulders, her eyes glazed, her expression angelic.

"You look like a dream," he whispered.

Sophia's smile widened. "How do you mean?" she asked.

"You look perfect," he answered, feeling foolish. He glanced at Fidelio, who was wagging his tail in approval.

Sophia rested her head against his chest and sighed. "I am very far from perfect," she said, keeping her voice low.

"As am I," he replied before he kissed the top of her head. His eyes stung, but he blinked and kept his tears at bay.

"Wait one moment. I'll bring supper and we will eat together if you wish," she said as she turned to leave, but the hunger Erik felt inside was not for food.

He watched her leave and knew the small taste of affection he had enjoyed would do nothing to sate the growing urges he felt inside.


	51. Dinner for two

Paladin51

Erik could barely breathe, nor could he decide whether he wanted to sit, stand, or pace. He turned around in a full circle before he located a mirror and glanced over his attire. He picked dog hair from his trousers and straightened his sleeves while impatiently waiting for Sophia to return. All the while he could still feel her warm, satiny lips, her soft body against his.

This is what people lived to experience, the beating of another person's heart so near their own. It was the dizzy feeling of intoxication and the clarity of sobriety. Nothing else could compare to this.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he turned and found Fidelio lying on his back with his front paws in the air. He had a glint in his dark brown eyes, as though he silently congratulated his master.

"Citrine has a bone for you," Erik coaxed as he walked to the lamp and turned down the light. He nodded toward the door. "I'm certain of it."

With a sigh, Fidelio stretched and rolled onto his feet. He trotted out of the room, tail still wagging and hindquarters wiggling as he bounded down the stairs. Sophia was just returning, and when she saw Fidelio she made kissing sounds and spoke to him as though he were a baby.

Sophia gazed up at Erik from the middle of the stairs and gave him a closed-lip smile. Swallowing hard, he smiled back, clasped his hands behind his back momentarily, and then offered his assistance. It was too late to appear gentlemanly, he knew, but he hoped to salvage some of his chivalry.

"In the past you haven't done well with trays," she commented as she made her way to the top.

"Pardon me?"

"Do you remember…? Oh, never mind."

Erik studied her a moment. "The tea?" he asked, feeling his face begin to burn. He was glad for the darkness in the hall and the dim lighting in the room.

"I apologize," Sophia said quickly, her voice low. She sighed. "Please, Monsieur, if you feel the need to do so, tell me to keep quiet. My brother says I have no idea when I should be seen and not heard and…and I've done it again, haven't I?"

With the tray left on the service table, he turned and faced her. "Does he treat you well?"

"Philippe? Oh, yes, he treats me very well. I honestly don't know where I would be without him."

Erik motioned for her to sit with him and she did at once, feeling her way across the room.

"Have you brothers or sisters?" Sophia asked as Erik turned the lamp up to help her see around the room. He turned away from her slightly before realizing he was being foolish trying to hide himself.

"None," he answered.

"Not ever?" Sophia asked.

Erik turned to face her and shook his head. He knew what she was asking: Was he the only surviving child? To his father he'd been the end of hopes for future children.

"No half-siblings, full siblings, or step-siblings," he muttered. He pushed her chair in at his desk and couldn't resist the urge to place his hands on her shoulders. She smiled up at him, silently giving her approval.

"I had a younger sister, but I don't remember her. She passed away when she was only a month old. I was not a year old at the time, but Philippe remembers her." Sophia frowned. "Not quite conversation appropriate for supper, is it?"

"You may say whatever you wish," he stated as he took his seat beside her.

Sophia glanced at the desk. "Are you certain you don't want to eat supper in the dining room? Citrine has returned home."

"Are you uncomfortable?" he asked.

Sophia pursed her lips. She stared at their waiting food a moment before she shook her head.

"Did you know that Citrine has twelve brothers and two sisters?" Sophia asked suddenly as she uncovered her plate.

"I did not."

"She tells me she slept in a dresser drawer, but I think she's jesting," Sophia said. "Dresser drawers aren't big enough to sleep in, are they?"

Erik couldn't stop himself from chuckling. "I can honestly say I have never attempted to sleep in a dresser drawer."

"Me neither," she said, giggling at the absurdity of their conversation. Their eyes met and Erik found himself growing comfortable in the silence between bites of food and comments at their makeshift table.

"Do you miss Paris?" Sophia asked.

"No, not really," Erik answered. "I prefer the quiet here."

"Truly?" Sophia asked. She sounded surprised and caught herself too late. Pressing her napkin to her lips, she slumped in her chair. "Forgive me for saying this, Erik, but the first few weeks you were here I thought you would run away to Paris and abandon your home. I honestly thought you were miserable here, though I suppose it is a change from a busy city to the countryside."

Sipping his tea, he nodded to avoid speaking. Her words twisted his insides, as he had considered leaving the Manor. It wasn't that he had desired to return to Paris, he had merely wanted to be away from where Ann Giry had sent him.

"You have always lived in the country," Erik said. His words were meant to be a question, though Sophia nodded and said nothing more on the subject. They ate with their elbows brushing against one another, the constant contact both comforting and distracting.

"Have you always lived in Paris?" Sophia asked after a long period of silence.

Erik shook his head and cut his green beans in half, dipping them into the cream sauce that had topped his roast. "I've traveled most of my life."

"Where?"

"Everywhere," he answered.

Sophia gave him a curious look, and Erik wondered if she would question his scars or his mask, which was still tucked within his dresser drawer. He looked away and snatched up the untouched bottle of Dupree wine.

"I've never been anywhere," Sophia said. She gave a listless sigh. "You will have to tell me about everywhere some day."

Something about their conversation made Erik feel particularly bold. He wasn't sure if it was the lingering feelings from their kiss or the way she sat beside him. It could have been that they had known each other for several months and that, no matter what, she treated him with the same respect. He'd never felt dignified before, but Sophia gave him a sense of pride and belonging.

"What would you like to know?" he asked as he filled their glasses.

Sophia blushed and shrugged. "Oh, I have no idea. I would have to think of something."

"Speechless," Erik mused. He gave her a sidewise glance that made her giggle again. It was the best sound he'd ever heard, and knowing that he had created her mirth made him want to hear her laugh again.

"I bet you never thought you'd see the day when I was speechless," Sophia said dryly.

Erik didn't say anything, which made Sophia gasp.

"You follow my brother's philosophy, I see," Sophia said with mock huffiness. "I am better seen than heard." She smiled, her eyes wandering from his face down to his chest.

Placing his fork on the side of his plate, Erik allowed his hand to fall on the small of her back. "Should I choose between seeing you and hearing you?" he asked, his voice low and deep.

Sophia's eyelashes fluttered, her cheeks turning noticeably puce in the dim light. She tilted her face to the side and studied his eyes before shaking her head. "You needn't choose," she whispered.

Erik had no idea what had happened that she suddenly appeared so glossy-eyed, but he felt her lean into him and pressed firmly against her lower back. Caressing her with soft, sweeping motions, he massaged up to her shoulders until his fingers brushed the nape of her neck.

She sucked in a breath, which startled him at first. He thought he had hurt her until he felt her hand against his leg.

"I—I apologize," she said, moving her hand away. "I'm so…"

He caught her lips to his with fierce passion that surprised her into a moment of stiffness before she melted in his grasp. The muffled sound of her soft moan made him inhale sharply, the feel of her warmth relaxed him, allowing him to savor each moment.

Cradling her face between his hands, he kissed her softly before brushing her cheeks with his thumbs. Her eyes were closed, but she grinned in blissful contentment. She enjoyed his affection, he realized.

"I—I apologize," Sophia murmured.

Erik's brow furrowed. "For what, Sophia?"

"I've…never…kissed anyone," she confessed, glancing away. She fidgeted, distracting herself by shifting in her chair. "I feel as though I should tell you that now…in case…" She shrugged. "My kisses are disappointing."

He stroked a loose strand of her hair, curling it around his finger. His skin pricked with gooseflesh as he prepared to humiliate himself. She was a young woman. She wasn't expected to be experienced—and it was better that she wasn't. But he was a grown man with different expectations. Bowing his head, he sighed and gently held her hands in his.

"I have traveled, but I am not a man of great experience with…more gentle matters," he said under his breath. He winced and immediately regretted his words. There was no need to tell her such things. He did nothing but confirm to himself that he was little more than a fool.

Sophia's grasp tightened. She waited for him to lift his eyes and then she kissed him again.

"My first kiss," she whispered against his lips as he pulled her close. "You are my first kiss."


	52. Dessert

And the fan fic readers rejoice!

Paladin 52

Erik continued to play with the single loose strand of Sophia's dark hair. The sensation was enticing to her in ways that she couldn't describe. Her stomach tightened somewhere lower than she'd ever felt before, a curious tightening that left her breathless.

She felt somewhat silly now that she had confessed her fears, but after she revealed her insecurities Erik had done the same. The shame in his lowered gaze caught her unaware, as Sophia saw no reason for him to be embarrassed. She knew why he was no Don Juan, no living, breathing Greek god, and she didn't care. Perhaps he didn't see it, but she did. Her attraction for him was nestled somewhere between the tone of his voice, his gentle touch, and his enigmatic gaze. There was the man she wanted to hold her and kiss her.

His finger grazed her chin, lifting her lips to his. Each time their mouths met, Sophia felt the unknown depths of her stomach grow warm, a fire rising, traveling through her arms and legs. Struggling to behave as a lady, she measured her movements at first, but when she felt his hands travel up the length of her back, she wanted nothing more than to surrender to his caress.

Erik's lips parted and Sophia followed his wordless commands. Her fingers pressed into his shoulders, her hips moving forward to bring her torso against his. She felt Erik straighten slightly in surprise, but just as soon as she thought he would pull away from her, he held her tighter, one hand moving from her back to her arm and along her shoulder.

Sophia's breath caught in her throat and her eyes fluttered open. Head swimming, she wanted to cry out as Erik's hand dipped from her neck down her chest. His palm grazed over the hardened peak of her breast, the sensation catching her by surprise, her delight and sudden confusion leaving her mouth in a half-sigh, half-groan that was far louder than she had intended.

Erik's hand instantly pulled away and rested innocently on her shoulder. "Have I hurt you?" he asked, his voice low and husky. The concern in his eyes was genuine, his grip turning soft and reluctant.

Sophia pursed her lips and shook her head, her voice unwilling to emerge.

She glanced at the clock and cleared her throat. "My brother will return soon, if he hasn't already."

Erik turned away as well. "There is dessert remaining," he said.

Sophia's stomach flipped in her belly as he showed her to her seat again and uncovered a little pastry topped with sweet, creamy icing.

"I see Citrine has been creating her own recipes again," Sophia said as she sat, knowing that she should have been on her way home rather than eating dessert.

"I've never cared much for sweets," he replied.

Sophia's eyes widened. "I have."

Erik smiled at her, his mood obviously changed from how she had previously seen him. His eyes appeared brighter, the tense lines in his forehead disappearing.

"Here," he said, taking the fork in his hand.

Sophia sat with her hands folded in her lap. She stared at the fork coming toward her mouth, the spongy cake glistening with honey. She smelled the sugar in the fluffy icing and parted her lips.

"This will make you reconsider your stance on sweets," Sophia said as she licked her lips.

"Good?"

She nodded. "Amazing. It will probably leave me with a stomach ache, but I think it's worth it. Try some."

Erik cut a small bite for himself as his eyes flickered toward Sophia. Her heart, which had just begun to settle, started to race once more. There was a question in his gaze, a hint of daring in his green eyes. Sophia, however, couldn't possibly feed him. Her hands were shaking, clammy, and weighted down like rocks in her lap. She turned away and coyly waited for him to sample Citrine's dessert.

"It is good," Erik said.

Sophia turned and smiled, watching as he dabbed his mouth with his napkin. "Yes, very good."

"But I'm still not one for sweets."

She frowned and batted her eyes. "You are a difficult man to convince," she said playfully. There was a small dab of honey on the corner of his mouth that was driving her mad. Leaning forward, she brought her hand to his face and he flinched, his eyes closing as though he expected pain.

"Honey," she said. "On the corner of your mouth."

Erik didn't move, giving Sophia the chance to brush the drip of sticky sweetness from his lips. The moment the tip of her thumb touched his mouth he caught her hand by the wrist and locked his eyes on hers.

Neither of them moved, though Sophia felt her blood running like fire, her senses stirred by his hot, steady breaths against her index finger. Her lips parted, stomach tightening in the most delightful panic she had ever felt.

Slowly—agonizingly slowly, Sophia noted—he brought her thumb to his lips and tasted the honey sweetness left behind. Kissing her thumb, his eyes closed, his long, dark eyelashes creating a fringe along the lids. He had magnificent eyes, she thought. So much sadness, so much expression, and so much heart like nothing she had ever seen in another person.

With a barely visible smile, Erik released Sophia's hand and she looked away, unsure of what to do. Her heart was sputtering, barely able to keep up with the rush of blood coursing through her veins. She heard Erik's breathing grow harder as she cut another slice of the pastry, scooped more icing on top of it, and brought it to his lips.

Two could play at this silent, tantalizing game.

"I shall convince you," she said softly as his lips closed around the fork.

Her eyes locked on his strong jaw and the definition of his dimpled chin. She hadn't noticed that his skin appeared freshly shaved, though she did recall how smooth his flesh felt against hers.

When she pulled the utensil away, they stared at one another for a moment. His cheeks were flushed and Sophia felt her face do the same.

"It has been a pleasure dining with you, Erik," Sophia said, not knowing what else to say.

Erik rose to his feet and helped Sophia to hers. He grasped her hands and searched her eyes.

"The pleasure," he said, his voice low and hypnotizing, "has been all mine, Sophia."

With one last kiss, he offered to walk her home.


	53. Waiting in the Woods

Paladin53

Philippe admired Belmont Manor. Though dusty when he and Sophia had first arrived, the grounds had never been neglected, even when the original owner had died and left it to his disinterested daughter.

While his horse made a path through the snow, Philippe imagined what the estate would look like come spring, especially viewed from the main house. With orchards as far as the eye could see, Philippe knew it was something Sophia would enjoy. He only hoped that her vision would hold until spring.

It had been several months since Philippe had asked her about her vision, as he knew the subject was a sensitive one. She insisted that everything was fine, but all too often he caught her silently mouthing the number of steps she had taken across the room. He wondered if her vision was worse than she admitted or if she simply wanted to be prepared for the inevitable.

Philippe lead his horse down the hillside path and toward the abandoned overseer's house. Structurally, there was nothing wrong with the cottage, but Philippe knew well enough that Sophia hated it.

"There are no windows," she once complained.

With a look of disgust, Philippe shook his head. "There are windows. Plenty of windows."

"But they're small."

"They're still windows."

Tying the horse to the fence, Philippe retrieved the keys from his trouser pocket and unlocked the door. He was instantly met by the musty odor of an unused space and held his breath a moment as he waved his arms around and attempted to circulate air. Realizing that his attempts were in vain, he entered the dark house and carefully walked across the floor.

Once he reached the office in the back, he pulled open the drapes and allowed moonlight into the room. As his eyes adjusted, Philippe uncovered the desk, which was draped with a dusty sheet. He found a candle burned down to a stub, which he lit once he located matches in the top drawer. Leaving the chair covered, Philippe began searching through the drawers for the most recent financial records.

He had just found what he was looking for when he heard his horse whinny. Glancing up, Philippe heard the thunder of hooves slowly fading into the night. He cursed under his breath and rose to his feet, sprinting through the house until he reached the front door.

His horse was gone.

-o-

The house Sophia and Philippe shared was dark when Erik walked her home.

They took their time leaving, as Citrine had gone home for the evening. Fidelio wanted to accompany them outside, but Erik sternly told him to stay put and he did, sliding down onto his belly and listlessly resting his head on his front paws.

"He listens to you," Sophia said. "My brother and father never had luck with animals. It must be the sound of your voice."

"What do you mean?"

"It's very…commanding," she said.

Erik shrugged before placing her cape over her shoulders and then adding his. He no longer felt commanding. Christine had sapped everything from him: His self-confidence, his manhood, everything he thought he possessed she had taken from him…or proved never existed.

Sophia turned around in a circle to show Erik that his cloak was far too big. With a grin, she wriggled out of the garment. "We're not far from my door. I doubt I'll freeze."

"Very well," Erik replied, feeling foolish until Sophia placed her hand on his wrist.

"You're very thoughtful," she said.

Erik held Sophia close to him as they walked across the yard, keeping her warm while sating his own need to steal a few more moments.

"He must be asleep," Sophia said when they reached the front door and found the house dark.

Erik glanced down at the snow. "There are no tracks."

Sophia shrugged. "He may have entered through the kitchen."

Turning, Erik scanned the yard and saw no evidence that anyone had walked to or from the house in some time.

"Are you certain your brother was returning this evening?" he questioned.

Sophia nodded, though her hand twitched in Erik's grasp. "He said he was traveling to the overseer's house across the property." She sighed and her shoulders fell. "I will see if he's in his room and if he's not, I suppose I'll wait for him—or perhaps leave the door unlocked for him."

Erik watched her unlock the front door and felt a twinge of sadness. He released her arm and took a step back, feeling a chill run up his spine now that he no longer had her warmth beside him.

"Good night," he said quietly.

Sophia pushed the door open then turned to face Erik. She smiled and extended her hand. "Thank you," she said. "It was a lovely evening."

Erik took both of her hands and gently squeezed them. "Lock your door and wait for him to return," he suggested.

Sophia nodded. "That stern voice," she teased.

With one last tender kiss, Erik watched Sophia disappear into her home. His moment of melancholy was broken when he heard her give a little squeal of delight, which he assumed he wasn't meant to hear. A moment later she appeared in the window and waved one last time, poised and proper.

Erik was oblivious to the cold as he returned home and allowed Fidelio out for a moment. The dog quickly did his business before running back to the door and sliding into the foyer. Landing on his rump, Fidelio glanced around as though wondering who had pushed him.

"Dolt," Erik said under his breath. He patted his leg and the dog came running, pushing his master aside to bound up the stairs. Erik heard the bed creak and knew Fidelio had made himself at home.

"You have until the end of the week," Erik said sternly. "And then you shall sleep on the floor."

Fidelio's tail continued to wag as Erik dressed for bed. He glanced out the window one last time and saw that Sophia's light was still on. There was honey still on his lips, real or imagined he didn't know. It didn't matter. Erik knew he would dream of Sophia. Turning down the lamp, he nudged Fidelio and crawled beneath the covers.

Moments later, Fidelio jumped on his chest and licked his face. What would have grated on his nerves months ago brought a smile to Erik's lips in the darkness.

-o-

Philippe stalked outside and gritted his teeth. He had tied the horse to the fence. There was no mistaking that the beast was secure. The fence was still intact, so Philippe knew that the animal hadn't managed to break through a rotting piece of wood.

Cursing under his breath, Philippe paused several feet from the fence and exhaled hard. It wasn't that he couldn't walk his back to the Manor, as he had done it before, but it had been before the snowfall. It took his horse a half-hour to ride across the estate. On foot it would take him an hour, if not more. He was in no mood to walk home in the cold.

His only hope was that there was firewood in the abandoned cottage. He could tolerate the musty smell and dusty furniture for a night and then return home in the morning. If he was lucky, Gabe might even ride out to see what had kept him.

With his mood improving, Philippe turned to enter the cottage again. Sophia wouldn't be pleased with him, but she would be fine for one night. Chances were she was in bed already.

He shut the door again, oblivious to the pair of eyes watching him from the orchard.


	54. Anxiety

Paladin 54

Something wasn't right.

As much as Philippe had attempted to convince himself otherwise, he felt that there was something terribly wrong. The horse could not have untied itself; it wasn't a trick horse and the boards were still in place. No, he thought as he blew out the candle and closed the desk drawer, this was no accident.

Philippe cursed under his breath and hoped that he was wrong. If he were correct—if Karl was behind this—he would murder him with his own bare hands.

Sprinting from the house, he barely took time to close the door before he ran to where the horse had been tied. It was then that he saw a shadow from the corner of his eye. Spinning on his heel, he turned just in time to see the board before it hit him across the forehead.

The world went dark before he hit the hardened snow.

-o-

Sophia ran her brush through her hair as she stood before her bedroom mirror, smiling at herself. Giddy excitement filled her insides and she rocked back and forth from the balls of her feet to her heels.

This must be what love felt like, perfect and invigorating, exactly as she imagined. She'd never thought her heart could beat so quickly in a way that left her tingling rather than terrified—and she never wanted the feeling to end. As she braided her hair, she wondered if Erik felt the same. He seemed much more composed than she did, as though he were unaffected by these feelings.

But, she reminded herself, he'd been just as nervous as she was at supper. His hands shook when he brought the fork to her mouth. Why did that seem to wind her heart and her mind into tighter knots? Really, this was ridiculous. He was, after all, only a man. A very passionate man, who felt warm and comfortable, whose masculine scent was still on her skin.

"He's more," she said to herself with a giggle. "I know he is."

Somehow Sophia knew he would disagree with her. She still wondered what had happened to him that caused his back to be so scarred. He'd talked so little about his family that she hated to press him further, fearing that perhaps there was a great tragedy that had taken place in Paris, one which affected him so greatly that he didn't wish to speak of it.

But—as she had learned through her own losses—talking to someone, anyone, released some of the pressure she felt around her heart. Perhaps in time he would realize that and confide in her. They were still new to one another, and being as such, Sophia wasn't sure if she could offer him any relief if he told her his tragic past.

"I think too much," she muttered as she drew back the covers and climbed into bed. She lay still for several moments before springing up and scampering to her window. Frowning, she sighed at Erik's dark window. How could that man sleep? Why wasn't he looking out the window, longing for her embrace?

She'd been reading too much lately. That explained everything. Shaking her head, she decided to sit by the fire and wait for Philippe to return home. Worrying about him would definitely end her lovesickness.

-o-

The split across Philippe's forehead would leave him unconscious for quite some time. And, Karl thought wickedly, with any luck the snow would freeze him.

Leaving Philippe where he fell, Karl spit on the snow and stalked off into the night.

"You will not make a fool of me, Sophia," he said under his breath.

-o-

Fidelio kicked Erik in the spine for a good half-hour before the master of the house, lying on the very edge of the bed, had enough of the dog and ordered him onto the floor. At first Fidelio thought he was playing and continued to emit a low growling sound that ended in a snort. Turning onto his back, Fidelio licked the back of Erik's neck and around his ear.

"Off," Erik commanded, his eyes unwilling to open.

The mass of gray hair gave a groan before he slunk away, waited for Erik to fall asleep, and then sprang up on the bed again and stepped on the back of Erik's head with one massive paw.

"Have you gone mad?" Erik groaned. "Sleep or you'll be outside in the cold."

Fidelio nudged him in the middle of the back with a large, square, and—Erik determined—incredibly thick skull.

That was the end of Erik's good will. Furious, he sat up in bed and turned, nostrils flared.

Fidelio yelped in surprise as Erik towered over him, his hand balling into a fist. The sound of fear gave Erik the ability to restrain himself as he knew that hitting the dog would do no good.

Briefly closing his eyes, Erik remembered cowering on the floor with his hands over his head, fear embracing him as he waited for his father to either hit him again or finally leave. It was a dreadful feeling, one that overpowered everything else in his life. Time would stop, the world would no longer exist. Emptiness filled his days and nights, and terror in knowing that tomorrow would be the same, that the man who held the key to his chamber would return with his face of stone and his hands as unforgiving as hammers.

Shuddering, Erik opened his eyes and found Fidelio with his head down as though he understood his master's intentions and accepted his punishment, just as he had done before. Frightened, the wolfhound tentatively wagged his tail and licked the fist before him, showing his loyalty extended past his cruel fate.

Erik exhaled and shook his head, misery consuming him. In the orient, he had learned to place his fist into his palm, an ancient symbol that promised _I carry no weapons, I mean you no harm. _Knowing the feeling of appeasing a heavy hand, Erik unclenched his fist, still angered by Fidelio's antics but unwilling to hurt his loyal companion over lost sleep.

"You've no other warnings Fidelio. I said off," Erik said sternly. He gave Fidelio a scratch under his chin and with a sigh of defeat, Fidelio jumped down and plopped onto his side in front of the door. He whined in a pathetic attempt to regain a place on the bed, which Erik ignored. There was no possible way Fidelio needed to be let out yet again and he had no desire to stand by the door and wait for the long-legged beast to trot around, sniff out a rabbit, and bay in the middle of the night.

Stretching, Fidelio scratched at the door with his front paws and the sound kept Erik awake and livid. There was no possible way Fidelio needed to be let out yet again and he had no desire to stand by the door and wait for the long-legged beast to trot around, sniff out a rabbit, and bay in the middle of the night.

With his patience gone, Erik shot out of bed and opened his bedroom door, wondering what had made the wolfhound so restless.

"Go," he ordered. "And don't come up here until morning."

Leaving the door open, Erik didn't wait to see if the dog went downstairs or remained on the landing. He dragged his feet across the floor and gazed outside one last time. Sophia's light was still on, as was another down the hall. The parlor, he guessed, having never stepped foot inside her home.

It appeared to be a quaint, cozy abode from the outside. Ivy, dormant over the winter, crawled up the sides of the house. In the summer there were probably flowers in the boxes and hydrangeas scenting the night air.

His mind, though groggy, was busy unraveling old memories. He remembered a similar house from his childhood, one that stood on a hill somewhere… Cattle, he recalled, lowing in the distance and the smell of hay in the air, the odor so strong that it stung his nose.

Viewing Sophia and Philippe's home at night was the only time he recalled such things, though he wasn't sure why. Too tired to think a moment longer, Erik allowed his mind to wander and eventually his thoughts returned to their dinner and how liberating it was to have company.

Gooseflesh rose along his arms and tears threatened to leave his eyes. He was so lonely. So incredibly, terribly, pathetically lonely all these years and he hated himself for it. If only he had tried harder to fit into the puzzle, if only he'd been less defiant, and if only he'd done something, anything to undo his wrongs.

It had taken a lifetime to finally have the pleasure of company at suppertime, to share a meal and a smile—and a kiss. It was as though his life were a pitcher under a faucet and after years of drip, drip, drip someone had finally turned the spigot and out came a deluge of what those tiny drops had promised but had never fulfilled.

Yawning, he wondered if Philippe had returned yet and assumed that the answer was no, as he hadn't heard a horse approach. He wanted to see Sophia again, but it was the middle of the night and his presence would be inappropriate. For the first time in his life, Erik was acutely aware of the balance he needed to find, of the changes he needed to make. Ugliness was only one factor in Christine's decision to leave. He realized that now and it made him feel no better, as the faults weren't physical. They were worse because they were internal, terrible feelings and thoughts and actions no mask could hide. But, he thought, at last finding a scrap of hope, perhaps they were faults he could still change.

"I do love you," he whispered to his window. "I know I love you, not the idea of you, Sophia." He stood for a while and hoped to see Sophia walking around her room but eventually decided to leave her be. It was for the best that he didn't loom over her, smothering her with his insecurities.

Once Erik crawled back into bed, he fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, unaware that Fidelio had returned to the room.


	55. Terror pt 1

A/N: I do try to leave as few notes before chapters as possible, but I do want to mark this and the next chapter as being violent. It's in no way meant to be gratuitous, but be forewarned that what you may read in this chapter as well as chapter 56 was difficult to write and may be disturbing to readers.

If you wish to skip these chapters PM me and I will summarize them for you so that you may resume reading when it's over.

Thanks for your interest and your feedback. I would really appreciate your feedback with this one.

Gabrina

Paladin55

Sophia was asleep when she heard Philippe's horse return. Inhaling, she forced herself to sit up. The book she had selected earlier in the night fell from her lap onto the floor. Ignoring it, she straightened her nightdress, pushed herself out of the armchair and turned the lamp up.

Having her brother home was a relief, as she worried about him when he was gone late at night. At least this time she knew where he was and what he was doing, unlike the previous night.

Still, she would reproach him for being away so long. It was almost two in the morning and he had finally decided to return.

"Ledgers cannot be that exciting," she mumbled as she wandered into the kitchen to heat another kettle of water.

The moment she entered the kitchen she heard her brother pounding on the door. Brow furrowed, she turned and walked back to the front door. Philippe's key was not on the hook by the front door, she realized. Perhaps he had lost it, which was unlike him. Philippe was by far the most reliable and responsible person she knew, which would explain the pounding. He was most likely livid.

"One moment," she called, thinking that she should have left the door unlocked for him to enter when he returned.

Turning the latch, Sophia jumped out of the way as the door forcefully swung open. Before she could scream, Karl clamped his hand over her mouth and backed her against the wall.

"Now," he said, pinning her with his body. "I finish what I started."

-o-

A dream of childhood roused Erik in the middle of the night. With the dark hills and a small, crumbling shack still vivid in his mind, he sat up in bed and gasped.

It had been many years since he'd seen those wooded hillsides and the quaint cottage. Strange, he thought, that he'd almost forgotten them. He'd been content there, he thought, at least for a few years. Why had he allowed that time to slip from memory? And why was it now on his mind now?

Fidelio barked at the foot of the bed, drawing Erik's attention. Turning his head, Erik found his dog standing very still, his ears down and his body rigid. Twice Erik slapped his thigh, but the hound remained unmoving. He barked again, this time the sound ending in a low growl. Erik didn't move, unsure of why Fidelio was behaving in this manner.

With a frown, Erik stared at the dog, thinking Fidelio was growing too big and too aggressive for his own good. Perhaps it was because he had frightened the poor pup earlier when he threatened to hit him, Erik thought, prepared to take the blame. Or perhaps this was why Fidelio was abandoned in the first place. For such a young animal, Fidelio had a tremendous set of large and puppy-sharp teeth. A bite would most likely not be lethal, but it would be scarring nonetheless and painful at that.

Erik tried a third time to call Fidelio to him and the furry creature finally obeyed. He dropped down to his belly and turned over submissively. With his tail thumping the floor, he tugged Erik's pajama bottoms, his rear end wiggling.

"Now you wish to play?" Erik said under his breath, still wondering why the dog was behaving so strangely. "It's the middle of the night."

Rolling to his feet, Fidelio gave a full body shake before he trotted toward the bedroom door, stopping only to see if his master was behind him. When he saw Erik still sitting, he bounded back and placed his paws on the bed. Sad, dark eyes stared up at Erik, pleading his master to abandon his bed.

"You have five minutes," Erik said, rising to his feet. Grabbing his cape, he glanced out the window and saw the light on in Sophia's home. Philippe must have finally returned.

-o-

Philippe vomited the moment he woke up in the snow, his body curled up in the fetal position. Blood was stuck to his eyelashes and eyebrows as well as his left temple. Beside him in the snow was a puddle of crimson.

Struggling to remember what had happened, Philippe sat up and glanced around, his vision still blurred and his head pounding. Once he was standing, he found the board that had knocked him out tossed in the snow and remembered his horse disappearing and the attack. He'd never seen his assailant's face, but he knew who had struck him.

"Sophia," Philippe whispered. He dragged himself forward, barely able to see. He needed to reach her but he had no idea how long he had been unconscious.

Reaching the fence, Philippe fell to his knees and vomited again before cradling his head in his hands. His hands were numb from the cold, his body trembling, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't abandon Sophia, not like this. Even if it killed him he had to reach her before Karl did. He had promised his father that he would watch over his sister and mother. As his mother lay dying—he had failed his father—he made a promise not only to his mother, but to himself as well, that Sophia would always come first. Once again he had failed his parents, as well as his sister. He couldn't do it again.

Forcing himself to his feet, Philippe began to run and scream his sister's name, praying that she was either with Monsieur Belmont or Citrine. In his heart, Philippe hoped she was with Monsieur Belmont.

-o-

Karl mercilessly ripped the skirt of Sophia's dress as he pinned her to the wall with his shoulder. Grunting, he pushed against her, displaying his strength and dominance over her.

"Your brother is dead," he said between his teeth. "And this whole damned place is dark. Once your lover wakes, he'll find nothing but your body lying broken and used on the floor," he said before he grabbed her by the face and wrenched her head to the side. "Do you wish to know how I killed your brother?"

Sophia bit the palm of Karl's hand, her teeth sinking into his flesh until she tasted blood. When he drew away from her, she managed to yelp in terror and dart to the side, her eyes trained on the open door.

The torn fabric on Sophia's skirts tangled her feet as she stepped forward; she nearly tripped herself. Shouting a curse, Karl grabbed Sophia by the shoulders and threw her to the floor.

As her vision started to fade, Sophia heard the clank of Karl's belt and then the startling feel of leather around her neck. She blinked and attempted to draw her hands up to her throat, but Karl had pinned her hands beneath his knees.

"He never saw me coming," Karl said as he pulled the belt tighter. "I hit him in the face with a board. Split his skull in two."

Sophia continued her desperate struggle. The belt cut off her air and her words, and gasping like a fish, Sophia kicked her feet on the floor as she felt Karl rip the remainder of her skirt and toss it aside.

Her body wrenched side to side until one of her hands came free. Instantly her fingers went to her throat until she found the strap and pried it away, gulping in another breath. Her action was met with the back of Karl's hand hard across her face. With all of her strength, she tightened her stomach and swiped at Karl's face, her nails scratching across his cheek and closed eyes.

"You're worthless to me," Karl spit in her face. He caught her by the wrist and slammed her hand into the floor until she cried out in pain, her struggling ending long enough for him to pin her once more. "What would a man such as myself ever want with a blind bitch?"

Anger overruled fear and she wriggled and fought, knowing that if she had bit him once she could do it again. The belt tightened around her throat, the pain almost overwhelming. She had to fight him, she knew, had to fight him or die and feel nothing ever again.

Karl realized it as well and grabbed her by the shoulders. He drove her into the floor once and stunned her, paralyzed her long enough to bring his trousers down. Sophia blinked, the darkness at the edge of her vision becoming a curtain over her eyes.

And suddenly she knew what he was about to do, what she feared much more than him beating her bloody. This had nothing to do with love or sex or a man's needs. This was his power, his terrible, dominating power. First he had taken away her security, then he had murdered her brother, and now he was going to take everything else she had.

With what little strength she had, Sophia fought, her legs kicking wildly, her shoulders wrenching from side to side.

Barely able to stay conscious, she felt herself on the verge of losing more than her wits.


	56. Terror pt 2

Another difficult chapter. One or two more and things will lighten up a bit. Once again, I would really appreciate your feedback on Chapters 55 and 56.

Note to NDBR: There were some changes made from the post on the board

Terror Part 2

Paladin56

Fidelio began scratching on the front door well before Erik made it down the steps. Being a puppy, Fidelio was prone to unusual and sometimes irritating behavior, but Erik had never seen the dog claw at the door in order to be allowed out, especially when he was normally allowed out back.

Walking into the foyer, Erik found Fidelio standing rigid, his tail held straight out. With a yawn Erik made his way into the kitchen and reached for an old horse rein that Gabe had made into a leash, but before he had it fully in his hand, Fidelio began barking.

Startled, Erik felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, gooseflesh forming along his arms.

Something wasn't right. He stalked through the house, swinging his cape over his shoulders as he strode toward the front door where Fidelio had made noticeable marks in the wood. Fumbling with the lead, Erik opened the door a crack and Fidelio used what little space he was allowed to stick his paw through. With a nudge of his large, square head, he wriggled the front half of his body into the darkness of night and growled.

Erik abandoned the leash and immediately opened the door, finding Philippe's horse standing in the middle of the yard, still saddled. The gelding reared up and fled in the direction of the barn the moment Fidelio burst into the yard. Ignoring the horse, Fidelio scrambled around the corner, his teeth bared and head dropped down.

With no other choice, Erik ran after his dog and heard the muffled sound of pounding coming from Sophia's home. His heart dropped in his chest, dread filling his insides as he lost his footing and righted himself against the side of the building.

A vicious, blood-curdling growl met Erik as he bolted through Sophia's opened front door, finding Fidelio with his jaws clamped around the back of a black-haired man's neck. With one wrenching tug, Fidelio pulled Karl off Sophia and began tossing his head side to side, burying his teeth deep into Karl's neck as he held onto the man's shoulders with his front paws, heedless of his previous injury.

Ignoring the fight, Erik found Sophia outstretched on the floor behind an armchair, a belt tightened around her neck and her eyes shut. Her face was a mottled blue, her body unmoving as Erik dropped to his knees beside her and pulled the belt free.

Sophia didn't move once Erik freed her from the strangling hold. With her head slumped to the side, Erik saw the deep, red indentions on her throat. He patted her cheeks, but she didn't react.

"Wake up," Erik pleaded. He glanced down the length of her body, his eyes settling on her bare waist and legs. Removing his cloak, he draped it over her before continuing to jostle her lifeless form.

She still wasn't responding. Leaning down, Erik placed his ear to her nose and mouth and waited to feel her breathing. Nothing.

"Sophia," he tried again, grabbing her shoulders. "You must wake up."

Her head fell back when he lifted her from the ground and he cradled her against his body, swallowing hard, regretting and fearing what had happened.

"Call off your dog!" Karl screamed.

Fidelio continued to growl as he held onto Karl, using his size as well as his position to keep Sophia's attacker from leaving. Twice Karl punched Fidelio in the nose and the dog released his grip momentarily, but quickly repositioned his jaws on another section of tender flesh.

As gently as he could, Erik placed Sophia back on the floor and rose to his feet. Grabbing the fire poker, he whistled and Fidelio abandoned his conquest. Poised above the man who had killed Sophia, he waited until Karl turned onto his back before he kicked him in the chest with his foot. Fidelio licked the blood from his face and looked on, his tail wagging as he awaited his master to take control.

Reaching down, Erik grabbed Karl by the shirt and whipped the poker's handle across his face. Dazed, Karl fell back, his mouth and nose bloody as he attempted to crawl away.

"You will suffer a far worse death than has ever been known to man," Erik swore before he lifted his foot, pressed down onto Karl's outstretched hand, and impaled his wrist with the fire poker, ramming the longer iron tip well into the floor.

Turning and ignoring Karl's screams, Erik dropped to his knees beside Sophia again. Fidelio had joined her, standing over her body as he furiously licked her face and throat. Shoving the dog away, Erik gathered Sophia in his arms, his lips trembling as he ran his hand up her back. His vision blurred, the tears he hadn't realized were gathering suddenly streamed down his face.

"Don't leave me Sophia," he pleaded with her, his lips pressed to her ear. He kissed her, holding the body that was still warm. Rocking on his knees, he planted kisses along the side of her head, his mind pulled in a thousand directions with every memory he had of her. "I don't have enough of you with me yet. You cannot leave me, Sophia."

There were far too many words left unspoken, too many moment unshared. Selfishly he wanted to kiss her again. Unselfishly, he yearned to compose music for her and show her how important she was to him.

Erik squeezed Sophia to his chest, choking on his sobs as he pressed her tightly to himself, his voice low and weak as he continued to beg her to wake up. His grip loosened, his hope suddenly vanquished. Drawing back, he looked at her face again, her features, so perfect in his eyes, motionless. She did not deserve this fate.

Again he held her tightly, whispering to her as he ran his hand along the back of her head and kept it from falling back. As his grip loosened, Erik prepared to place her on the floor again and avenge her death. His years in Persia would be put to use once more, everything he learned would be combined in a torturous death that would last weeks, months—a year if Erik could control himself.

Grasping her hand, Erik gazed at Sophia before smoothing her hair back. He'd make Karl Turro pay dearly for each bruise, for each scratch and imperfection on her face. He'd make himself pay as well for not arriving sooner, for not keeping her safe.

Brushing away the tears that clung to his lips, Erik bent and kissed her, exhaling in a hard sob against her mouth as he placed his fist on her abdomen and cried.

"Who will I teach now, Sophia? Who will listen to my music?" he wept, hating himself for not knowing how to mourn her rather than his own pathetic life. Holding her, feeling the lifeless weight of her body in his arms, was worse than any pain he had ever known. His insides twisted, his heart convulsing, writhing with the agony of what he had enjoyed a mere taste of with Sophia and all he would never be able to give her.

"I want to love you still," he whispered against her face, careful not to allow his damaged flesh to touch her soft cheek.

Erik opened his eyes, needing to see her again, to remember the only woman who had treated him with dignity, with more respect than he ever deserved. Through his tears he saw her lips part, her tongue touching the back of her teeth.

Fidelio inched nearer and lapped at Sophia's bruised hand while Erik placed his fingers gently to her neck, just below her jaw. There it was—the sign of life he desperately needed.

Not knowing what else to do, Erik patted her back several times before rubbing the length of her spine vigorously. Her body suddenly stiffened and she began to cough against his shoulder.

"There," Erik said in her ear. He swallowed hard, sighing in relief that she was breathing. "There, Sophia, keep coughing."

Sucking in a breath, Sophia choked out a sob and clung to him, her body trembling in his grasp. Lifting his head, he turned and saw her eyes wide open and filled with terror. He nodded, murmuring under his breath that she was safe now, that he would see to it.

Without warning Sophia pulled away and began coughing again, one hand wiping her mouth as she turned from him. Swallowing, Erik reached for her shoulder but Sophia brushed his hand away.

"Please don't touch me," she said under her breath before another sob racked her body.

Her request paralyzed him. Unable to breathe, unable to think, Erik sat on the floor and stared at her back. He had failed her in the worst way possible.

"Sophia," he whispered. He extended his hand, desperately wanting to comfort her but knowing he must obey her request. Though she couldn't see him nod, he did so with a frown and folded his hands.

Fidelio whined and drew Erik's attention to the opened door where Citrine stood with both hands clutching the doorframe. Her eyes were wide with horror as she stared at Karl, who was screaming and cursing. Climbing to his feet, Erik snatched up the shovel for the fireplace and held it over Karl's head, silencing him at once with the threat of a smashed skull.

"Gabe found Philippe's horse," Citrine panted, her eyes now fixed on Sophia. "I came here as soon as I heard."

"He's dead," Sophia cried.

Citrine glanced at Erik, her mouth dropping open. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, Citrine stepped inside the house, carefully avoiding the spatters of blood and one of Karl's teeth on the floor.

"How do you know this?" Citrine asked. She knelt down beside Sophia, ignoring Karl who was attempting to release his hand nailed to the floor.

Without turning, Sophia pointed at Karl.

"Oh, darling," Citrine mumbled. She placed her hand on Sophia's shoulder but it was immediately brushed away.

"Please don't touch me," she hiccupped, resting her forehead on the arm of the chair. She flinched as Citrine once again touched her shoulder. With a whispered apology, Citrine distanced herself as Sophia began crying again. "Just find Philippe," Sophia begged.

Citrine's eyes turned back to Erik, who was standing numbly several feet away. More than anything he wanted to comfort her, to love her and show her that nothing would ever hurt her, but in his heart he knew he couldn't promise her such things—and that even if he did, Sophia would never believe or trust him again.

"Monsieur," Citrine said, addressing Erik. "Gabe is searching for Monsieur Dupree." She forced a smile, attempting to break the overwhelming anxiety they both felt. "I'll take Sophia back to her room and stay with her." Her eyes flashed to Karl and back at Erik's face. "I'll keep her there until morning."

Erik blankly nodded as he turned and stared at the open door, at the darkness and cold waiting for him once again. Removing the fire poker that kept Karl staked to the floor, he struck Turro twice; once across the shoulders and again in the back of the head. Tossing the bloodied weapon aside, he grabbed the unconscious man by the feet and dragged him from Sophia's home.

Walking into the night, Erik glanced back through the open door at Citrine sitting beside Sophia, her eyes surveying the damage.

Now that he was alone, Erik knew it was true. He'd arrived too late. Sophia was still alive, but Erik knew she was far from saved.


	57. Guilt

a/n: The recovery for Sophia begins. Thanks to all of you who read and reviewed. I hope the notes I provided to those who asked for them worked out well.

On a completely different note...two of my readers, HDKingsbury and MadLizzy, are posting a story on here under the name HDKingsbury called Gypsy Heart of Darkness that takes characters from my other story trilogy (Heart, Ghost, One Week) and made a fan fic of a fan fic. Please go check it out and leave feedback, especially if you're in the mood for something quirky, perverted and fun. They even have a sequel in the works.

Paladin57

Citrine sat at arm's length from Sophia long after Monsieur Belmont disappeared. "We must return you to your bed," she said gently.

It was difficult not to rub Sophia's back or hold her and protect her, but Citrine allowed her close friend the space she requested and waited for her to respond. There was no other way for her to show Sophia that she cared for her. More than anything, Citrine was grateful that Sophia still allowed her in her house, as she expected that once Monsieur Belmont dragged Karl's body out that Sophia would want to be left alone.

"You'll be more comfortable there, and once you are situated I'll bring you some tea and a bite to eat."

Through her tears, Sophia shook her head and buried her face deeper into the armchair. As she took a deep breath, Citrine saw Karl Turro from the corner of her eye, his face a mask of blood, his body sprawled out on the snow several feet from the door. Seeing him made her wish that Monsieur Belmont hadn't seen her walk in, as Citrine knew that her employer would have killed Turro swiftly. That was as much as that vile pig of a man deserved.

"I'll prepare a compress for you unless you want me to help you stand first," Citrine offered, trying a different approach. "It will lessen the pain you feel."

When Citrine turned her attention back to Sophia, she followed her gaze, which had settled on her attacker. Recoiling visibly, Sophia pulled herself to her feet and wrapped Erik's cloak around her waist.

"Lean on me," Citrine said when Sophia nearly doubled over, cradling her wrist with her hand. Her knuckles were a deep red, and Citrine noticed that one of her fingernails had split lengthwise. There was blood beneath Sophia's nails, which Citrine knew had come from Karl.

"I can walk," Sophia said under her breath, and without another word she hobbled toward the front door.

Citrine beat her there and slammed the door shut, locking it at once. She shook her head, a sympathetic expression on her face.

"Sit in the kitchen with me while I make a compress for you," she suggested. Citrine wrung her hands and pursed her lips. "Do you think you can sit?"

Still Sophia said nothing in return. Clinging to the cape ensuring her modesty, she took small steps into the kitchen while Citrine followed closely behind.

While she kept herself busy in the kitchen, Citrine watched Sophia, who sat with her trembling hands folded beneath the table and her eyes fixed at a distance place on the wall. Finding a half-empty bottle of whisky in one of the cupboards, Citrine added two teaspoons to Sophia's tea in hope that it would calm her nerves.

"I will help you into the tub," Citrine said under her breath as she placed the tea, sweetened with honey to mask the taste of alcohol, before Sophia. "You should wash yourself. It may help to keep you from…something unwanted.

Sophia blinked and glanced up at Citrine, her eyes red and face blotchy. Her expression told Citrine that she didn't understand.

Citrine trained her gaze on her tea cup. "It is possible to conceive your first time, whether you consented or not."

As she continued to sob, Sophia shook her head. "I fought him as hard as I could," she cried into her hands. "I fought him until I knew I was dead."

Citrine sank into her chair beside Sophia and choked back a sob. They both sat in silence, their hands wrapped around their cups of tea and the house growing colder and colder now that there was no fire burning.

Eventually Sophia slumped forward and wearily rested her head against her folded arms. "I should never have opened the door," she said, her voice hoarse.

-o-

Everything was his fault.

Even after he had rounded the corner, Erik still heard Sophia crying and Citrine offering her comfort. Erik had no desire to return home. Over and over he heard Sophia's request, the lashes to his heart deepening each time he replayed her words.

Don't touch me.

His eyes rapidly blinked away tears, the blame he felt for himself making his insides numb. With Fidelio on his heels, Erik sat on a block of wood and placed his head in his hands, ignoring the cold of the night. He deserved to suffer, as even one night of cold was not equal to a mere second of the agony Sophia suffered.

Good intentions were not good enough. While he sat alone, Erik evaluated everything that had happened, finding the different ways he could have kept Sophia safe. If he had insisted that he stayed with her, Karl never would have entered her home. If he had kept a watchful eye on her house, no one would have crept through the night and attacked her. If he hadn't offered Philippe a partnership, Sophia would be safe and Philippe would be alive.

This was his doing, not hers.

The pain Erik thought could not get any worse became increasingly unbearable. Sophia had lost both of her parents and now her brother. She was an orphan, he thought, who would be unable to provide for herself, what with her vision failing. Not only was her sight crippled, but Erik knew that she didn't trust anyone—not even Citrine. What would become of her now?

As he wiped his eyes, Erik looked around, needing something to occupy himself before he went mad. There was nothing on the property that didn't remind him of Sophia. She was this place to him, the comfort he found in his room, the sounds of laughter in the kitchen and the notes played on the piano in the parlor. He was just beginning to know her—really know her—and now he wasn't sure if he would ever have the opportunity to be near her again.

How would he tell her how he felt when she didn't want him near her?

There was not a single corner that would bring him solace now that Sophia had suffered on his property. Her memory was outside the Manor as well as inside. This was where he had cut firewood for Sophia, where he had been stopped and stayed at the Manor on the night he was certain there was no place in the world for him. Such kindness, such innocence had been destroyed. Erik closed his eyes and envisioned her face, the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the expression on her face as she listened to him speak. He wondered if he would ever see her blush again, or hear her laugh coyly in his presence.

Fidelio licked Erik's wrist and garnered his master's attention. There was blood on the dog's chin still, which was all the reminder Erik needed to climb to his feet. He wanted Karl Turro far from her and nothing would bring Erik greater pleasure than sending Sophia's assailant straight to hell.

-o-

Gabe called out to Philippe every few minutes until his throat was raw from yelling. With a second horse tied to his mount's saddle, he sat up in the stirrups and surveyed the stark white landscape.

Before he yelled again, a figure stumbled through the trees and slid halfway down the incline, his feet snagging on snow-covered roots. Gabe jumped from the saddle and walked the horses forward, leaving them both tied to a young tree.

"Gabe," Philippe wheezed as he forced himself to his feet and wobbled toward the waiting horse. "Where is Sophia?"

"She's with Citrine," Philippe said, which was as much as he knew. Before Philippe fell, Gabe grabbed him under the arm and helped him toward the waiting horses. "What happened?"

Relief showed on Philippe's forward as he clung to the saddle's pommel as well as Gabe. Taking a deep breath, his relief turned to anger, and as he clenched his teeth he struggled to mount the waiting horse.

"I'll kill the bastard," Philippe spat. His face was deathly pale, save for the smear of blood across his forehead. "Make haste, Gabe. Karl Turro was here a moment ago…he…have you seen him?"

Gabe looked away briefly and felt Philippe grip his shoulder, demanding answers. "I believe Monsieur Belmont found him."

"Where?"

Lifting into his saddle, Gabe untied the reins to Philippe's horse and handed them to him. "Are you well enough to ride?" Gabe questioned, his concerns growing.

"Gabe, where was Karl Turro found?" Philippe insisted. Both of his hands were wrapped around the pommel to keep him from collapsing.

"I'm not certain," Gabe lied. "I came to find you."


	58. Regrets

Normal reading may resume. The worst is over.

Paladin58

While Citrine prepared to treat the damage Karl had done, Sophia returned to her room alone. It wasn't until she glanced at the clock that she realized it was almost dawn. Her head pounded, her shoulders sore and hand throbbing. More than anything she merely wanted to sleep, but Citrine insisted that she treat Sophia's injuries.

"Fine," Sophia relented at last, realizing it was probably better to have company than to be alone.

Glancing down, Sophia suddenly realized that she was wearing Erik's cloak around her waist. Tears stung her eyes as she sat on the edge of her bed and recalled the manner in which she awoke.

Her skin still crawled at the memory of Karl's touch, but feeling Erik's cloak beneath her outstretched hand had given her a sense of ease. She only wished that his touch, that remembering how frantically he rubbed her back and roused her to life, had been as comforting. Why had waking in his arms suddenly disturbed her? Why did his gentle breaths against her skin frighten her so? He'd never hurt her; he'd never hurt her. And yet she didn't want him anywhere near her—but still she wanted to see him again, if for nothing else but to apologize for being so foolish.

Confusion struck her as hard as her tears. Sophia grasped the fabric tighter, her hand balled into a tight, painful fist that she couldn't bear to release. Her thoughts were torn between the lingering fear of death and wondering what had become of Erik. She had no memory of him leaving or even if they had spoken. Vaguely she recalled him releasing her, but her only true recollection began with Citrine sitting her down in the kitchen. All else, fortunately, was a blur…for now.

Citrine tapped on the door and allowed herself in with a tray full of bandages and bowls. Once she saw that Sophia wasn't yet dressed, she averted her eyes.

"Do you need my assistance?" Citrine questioned with her back turned.

"He gave me his cape," Sophia said, her voice gravelly from her tears.

When Sophia looked up she found Citrine wistfully gazing at her.

"Do you think he is angry with me?" Sophia sniffled.

Standing beside the bed, Citrine cocked her head to the side. "There is only one person who has angered him, and it is not you."

"Where did he go? Is he searching for Philippe?" Sophia couldn't bring herself to say Philippe's body. Her mind couldn't quite grasp the reality of being completely alone, her parents both buried and now her brother joining them.

"I'm not certain," Citrine said, standing poised and ready to clean Sophia's face.

"I wish I were with him," she said, referring to her brother, whom she couldn't imagine living without.

"He may return," Citrine murmured.

Sophia's tears fell again, her body numb to the needle and thread closing a wound to her forehead.

-o-

Unexpected and overwhelming illness prevented Erik from carrying out his plans to torture Karl Turro for days on end. Erik envisioned dedicating his life to seeing Karl suffer, not stopping for food or rest.

He wanted to kill Karl, of that there was no doubt, but his mind was only on Sophia. He could no longer accept what had happened to her, what he had not prevented.

Stripped down to only his shirt and trousers, he wandered the property with Fidelio at his heels, refusing to leave his master's side.

There was no place for Erik to go, no place for him to escape to now that Sophia was with Citrine. Bile rose in his throat as he thought of how he had found Sophia, his anger causing his hands to shake with rage. Before he had the opportunity to grab Karl by the throat, Erik felt his knees go weak. He vomited in the snow, sickened by the very thought of Karl stealing everything from Sophia.

Fidelio nudged Erik with his head, offering his loyalty in his master's darkest hour. Sitting on his knees, Erik accepted and clutched the dog's wavy mass of gray fur, sobbing to himself, not knowing when he had ever before cried so hard.

For most of his life, the idea that he was a monster had been constantly reinforced. A mere glance at his face was punishment to the rest of the world. Karl also deserved to be thought of as a monster, as someone cruel and demonic.

Barely able to breathe, Erik lifted his head at the sound of horses. He spotted both riders immediately and rose to his feet, squinting in the night for a better look. He remained at a distance when he saw Philippe being held up by Gabe.

"My God," Erik muttered to himself.

Keeping his distance, Erik watched Gabe lead Philippe back home, their horses returned to the stable by Rene, who shook his head and said something under his breath to his son.

"I can do it myself," Philippe barked, even though his weight was supported by the horse master's son. His forehead was split open, tiny rivers of dried blood snaking down his face.

"Of course, Monsieur, as soon as we are inside," Gabe obliged. His eyes scanned the snow, and when he spotted Erik and Fidelio he nodded, his eyes trained on Erik's.

It wasn't until then that Erik realized he had completely forgotten about his mask. Receding into shadows, he waited, wondering what he should do. As much as he wanted to see Sophia, he couldn't go near her. She'd made it clear that she didn't want anyone to touch her, and as best as he could understand her situation, Erik decided to obey. The last thing he wanted to do was cause her any pain or fear—he'd done enough of that in his lifetime.

Pausing, Philippe saw Karl lying in the snow. His words were unclear, but Erik looked on as Philippe lunged with all of his might, spitting and kicking at Karl's unconscious body until he collapsed.

"I'll kill you! One scratch to my sister and I'll rip the head from your shoulders!" Philippe shouted, his voice tearing through the night.

Helping him to his feet, Gabe led Philippe past Karl and ushered him into the house.

Once Gabe and Philippe walked inside, Erik turned away and flexed his hands which were stiff from the cold. He stalked toward Karl, but Fidelio reached their prey first and clamped his jaw around Karl's bloody hand.

With a yelp, Karl sat up as the pain registered. Erik grabbed his feet before Karl could move or speak, and with Fidelio still latched on, he dragged Karl into the smokehouse and slammed the door.

"I am a monster, an uncaring beast of a man," Erik said, his voice low and cruel. Rolling up his shirt sleeves, he removed a butcher's knife hanging above his head. "And by morning you will have a face to match your soul."

With his eyes fixed on Karl, Erik's hand tightened around the butcher's knife handle.

-o-

Sophia screamed the moment Philippe burst into her room. Gabe was forced to release Philippe, as both of them couldn't fit through the doorway, and Philippe immediately fell to his knees at the foot of the bed.

"My God," Citrine said under her breath as she momentarily left Sophia in favor of Philippe. "You look as though you've been resurrected from the dead."

"I'll kill him," Philippe panted. He trembled with anger, his face bone white beneath his dried blood.

"Philippe," Sophia whispered. Her hand still clutching Erik's cape, she leaned forward on her bed and touched Philippe's cold, outstretched hand. "He told me you were dead."

Refusing Gabe's help, Philippe pulled himself up and sat beside Sophia in his damp, dirty clothes. Before he could examine Sophia, Citrine placed her palm against his chest and lifted his chin, her eyes squinting at his forehead.

"You need stitches, Monsieur," Citrine said.

"Not yet," Philippe said as he continued to stare at Sophia.

With her hand still holding his chin, Citrine shook her head. "There is no waiting," she said firmly. "Sit still, Monsieur."

"Care for my sister," Philippe waved her off. He scooted closer to Sophia, his eyes turning glassy as he looked into his sister's face. "Someone must care for my sister."

Sophia cautiously inched back as Philippe reached for her and he froze, his fingertips lingering mere inches from her knees. His eyes continued to stare at the cloak draped around her, his Adam's apple noticeably bobbing as he pressed his lips together. The relief that had been evident in his eyes the moment he saw Sophia had faded.

Citrine's hand brushed against his shoulder and she nodded, her lips forming a barely noticeable smile. "Monsieur Belmont," she said, keeping her voice low.

Philippe gazed at Citrine, his eyes void of understanding. "I saw him in the yard with the dog."

With a nod, Citrine looked to Sophia, who was studying her bruised hand. Her lips quivered at the mention of the property owner's name, but she didn't lift her eyes or utter a word.

"He should return inside," Citrine said simply.

Philippe forced himself to stand once more. "I will kill Karl Turro," he vowed, his voice shaking with rage.

Citrine gave Philippe a sharp look. "Would you be so kind as to ask Monsieur Belmont to return to the parlor before he or my dog freezes to death?"

Philippe studied Citrine a moment before nodding at last. His strength was sapped, but his anger showed no signs of deteriorating for quite some time. Unfortunately, there was little he could do with his anger, as every step he took made him sick to his stomach and his head pounded with such intense pressure that he had half the mind to drive a nail into his skull to stop the throbbing.

"I'll find him," Gabe volunteered. "Monsieur Dupree should not stand a moment longer. He's not well."

"Don't speak of me as though I don't exist!" Philippe bellowed.

"Stop, please," Sophia begged, her voice so low that she nearly went unheard. Her eyes had filled with tears again, her mottled face showing the signs of bruises she would wear for weeks to come. "Please don't yell any more, Philippe."

Ashamed, Philippe nodded and bowed his head. He reached for Sophia's hand but she withdrew from him. With nothing left to do Philippe remained at the end of the bed while Sophia sat in silence.

"I will boil water," Citrine announced as she followed Gabe out of Sophia's room.

"There are no words to tell you how sorry I am," Philippe whispered once he and Sophia were alone. He paused and studied the top of her lowered head. "But I swear to you, Sophia, he will pay for this. He will pay quite dearly."

-o-

Citrine grabbed hold of Gabe's arm before he lumbered out the front door.

"Be careful," she warned.

Gabe's eyes narrowed. "Careful of what?"

Shaking her head, Citrine handed him her apron. "You stay here."

"Citrine—"

"Gabe, please. I will find him. You've not an ounce of a woman's touch, my dear."

Exhaling, Gabe ran his hand through his black hair. "Then we shall stay together."

Citrine smiled and reached for the doorknob. "He has my dog. He will listen to me," she said before she disappeared.


	59. Juxtaposition

Paladin59

The butcher's knife hit the table with a sickening clunk that caused Karl to flinch with apprehension. Wordlessly, Erik held up four sections of rope he had cut just before he bent down and ripped open Karl's shirt sleeves. He fastened one strip below Karl's right elbow, then one on his other arm.

"Do you know what I'm doing? I want you to bleed," Erik said under his breath as he bound Karl's hands above his head and secured the larger section of rope to the leg of the smokehouse table, binding him so that he couldn't escape his new prison. "But I don't want you to bleed to death until I command it."

Roused from his unconscious state, Karl tossed his head from side to side, struggling to comprehend what was happening to him. His nose was smashed, his mouth a bloody cavern of cracked teeth and bruised gums. Each breath he took was labored, grunts of agony that would never equal what Sophia had endured.

"You will bleed from your arms, your legs, your groin, your head; from every inch of your body before I allow you to die, you miserable bastard," Erik said through his teeth. He bound the third rope around Karl's leg so tightly that Karl jumped.

"It's been a long time," Erik continued, "since I've cauterized a wound. The stench of burning flesh is quite distinct. You will discover that you become quite familiar with it in the coming days. Soon enough you won't remember the smell of cured meats."

With Karl suitably restrained, Erik rose to his feet and selected a paring knife. He turned the instrument over in his hand and ran his thumb along the sharpened edge.

"You will learn how to scream," Erik promised.

Complete calm washed over him, a feeling of his body and mind separating. He remembered the feeling, the dulled anxiety of watching his hands work and seeing his flesh tinged with crimson. Erik's stomach tightened, his nerves on end as he considered distant days, images he never expected to live again. Forcing himself to forget, he ran the knife blade across Karl's forearm, instantly garnering a distant but familiar sound.

The music of pain. Erik held Karl's arm outstretched, restraining him further as he made a long, straight incision from Karl's wrist to his elbow, carefully keeping the wound away from major veins.

With Karl's arm opened, Erik stood again and picked up a bag of salt. Sprinkling a bit on the table, he coated the bloody knife in coarse granules then made a second incision along Karl's left arm and watched him bleed. When Karl began to struggle Erik elbowed him in the face, then rose to retrieve a fire poker from his home.

The flick of a warm, wet tongue against his palm caused Erik to turn. He stared at the contented furry face, its tongue lolling from an open maw. The distinct difference of what Erik felt inside, the turbulent, threatening hatred was in stark contrast to the loyal hound's greeting. There was still blood on Fidelio's snout, but the beast was more concerned with pleasing his master than cleaning his face.

"Guard," Erik said to Fidelio as he rose to his feet, leaving the knife on the table. "This will require more firewood and instruments."

The cold hit Erik's face immediately and the crisp air filled his insides. A peculiar sensation rattled through him until his eyes settled on Sophia's home. The guilt—for that was what had threatened his plans—ebbed. He could not allow Karl Turro to slink away unpunished as he and Philippe had previously done. Karl had proven himself malicious and vindictive, and to allow him his freedom only invited further grief. 

With his eyes fixed on the bloody trail through the snow, Erik knew that, if given the chance, Karl Turro would kill Sophia. 

His morose thoughts were broken by the sound of a door closing. Lifting his eyes, Erik saw Citrine walk into the night and took a step back.

"I've seen you already, Monsieur!" Citrine shouted as she trudged through the snow.

Erik swallowed hard and wiped his hands on his trousers, attempting to remove the blood from his fingers.

With a frown, Citrine approached. "You should return inside. It's much too cold out here, especially since you're still recovering from pneumonia."

Erik looked away, the stinging cold against his exposed face beginning to burn. Suddenly aware of himself, he lifted his trembling hand to cover what he could and felt his palm stick to his cheek. The sensation made his stomach turn. He wanted no part of Karl Turro on Sophia or himself.

"Monsieur, where is my dog?"

Citrine's question caught him by surprise and he turned to study her. "Your dog?"

"That is correct. I want my dog back."

Hearing Citrine's voice, Fidelio stuck his head through the open door and whined, drawing her attention.

"He needs his face cleaned up, Monsieur," Citrine said sternly as she gathered her skirts and marched through the snow. "Look at him. That wicked man has hurt my dog."

Erik turned to face Fidelio, who had fresh blood on his wet nose. With his thoughts on Sophia, Erik hadn't noticed that Fidelio was stained but not with Karl Turro's blood. Turro had punched Fidelio with such force that he drew blood from the hound.

Citrine moved to stand closer to Erik and shook her head. "He hit him in the nose," she said sadly, shaking her head. "But Fidelio didn't let go, did he?"

Erik made no reply. He crouched down and stuck out his free hand, but Fidelio stayed his ground, obeying his master's first command. He felt Citrine still standing at his side, and for a heartbeat the dream that had first roused him in the night came to mind.

Brushing the thoughts aside, he called to Fidelio and the dog bounded over, his body wriggling all over in delight as Erik scratched his furry chin. Erik remained silent as Citrine walked away from him, her feet crunching the snow. As he attempted to look away, he saw her peer into the smokehouse at Karl's body, bloody and strewn across the floor. His lips parted, the words he wanted to say unable to coalesce in his mind. At last Erik realized there was nothing for him to say. He was a killer, a torturer, a beast just as he was always told from the time he was old enough to comprehend.

With his fist balled around a clump of Fidelio's gray fur, Erik suspected that Citrine already understood—and if she didn't, she had better not question her employer. She had not seen the worst of him and he had no desire for her to see what he was truly capable of doing.

"Come, Monsieur, you need tea and a bite to eat," Citrine said as she joined him once more. She stood over him, her close proximity snapping him back to life as he studied the apron and shawl before his eyes.

The burning rage he felt was culled by her presence. Erik didn't understand why he suddenly felt as though he could no longer stand outside the smokehouse. With a curt nod he turned toward his home with Citrine beside him.

"You should return to Sophia," he said gruffly.

Citrine's hand brushed against his arm. "Monsieur, I think you should return to her as well."

Erik froze at her gentle caress, unsure of whether she had meant to touch him or not. His hands balled into fists, the discomfort of blood binding his fingers together sickening him.

Deep down inside he felt the calling of a dangerous man, a life he had attempted to ignore and leave behind. But now it was resurrected and he saw himself split, the juxtaposition of who he had always been and who he wanted to be now.

As he stood with his back to Citrine, Erik felt the battle welling inside of him. He was a monster hiding behind finely-tailored clothing. If Citrine dared to look into his eyes she would find a dark, soulless gaze, one that held only abominable hatred and the desire to kill.

His thoughts made him sick to his stomach. There was no doubt that he wanted Karl Turro dead, but he knew just as well that these hands, these murderous hands, would damn him to a life of solitude.

"Monsieur, come with me," Citrine said, her voice low and soft.

Heart racing, Erik pulled away, but Citrine grasped his sleeve, signaling her concern for him. Her thumb press firmly into his upper arm, her fingers clinging to his bicep as his gaze settled on the smokehouse. If he shook her away there was no going back. It angered him that Karl Turro's life could condemn him, but as he stared at the wooden structure, the doorway filled with darkness, Erik had no desire to return to a world of endless night.

Without another word, Erik allowed Citrine to lead him to Sophia and Philippe's home, grateful for the choice he was allowed.


	60. Where Sophia Belongs

Paladin60

Philippe's eyes grew heavy the longer he sat with Sophia. She assumed that his lethargy was a result of his pain. Using the towels and water basin Citrine had brought into the room, Sophia took her mind off her own pain and tended to her brother until he grunted and asked her to stop fussing.

"Citrine should be looking after you. Where has she gone?"

"I'm not sure," Sophia answered, keeping her voice low and soft. She glanced at her bedroom door, which was ajar and heard no sounds from the hall or beyond.

Philippe caught his harsh tone and frowned.

"Have Gabe help you to your room," she said lightly as she sat beside him. "Your head looks simply terrible."

"I don't need anyone's help." He sat up and began rubbing his eyes. The pain made him stifle a curse. "I will not let you out of my sight again. As soon as you are able to travel we're leaving this place. It's clearly not safe for you here."

Sophia remained quiet, the lump in her throat growing.

With no voice remaining, she turned away and held her breath, willing herself not to cry. She didn't want her life to change again, to memorize the details of another house and grow accustomed to different people.

"You know it's true, Sophia. I would feel better if you were with Aunt Ann and Cousin Meg."

"What will I do?"

"I'll find work and make enough money to support us both. If we live with Aunt Ann we'll able to save more money. Perhaps in a few years we may move into the country again if you wish."

Sophia turned to Philippe again, her eyes brimming with tears. "But you were offered employment here…as a partner."

Shaking his head, Philippe placed his hand over Sophia's. His touch startled her but she didn't pull away. She wanted to prove to him that she was competent and strong, that she could endure these hardships without her brother punishing her for her mistakes.

"Your place is not here," he said firmly.

A sob escaped without Sophia realizing how close she was to crying. Burying her face in her hands, she turned and lay on her side, unable to face Philippe. Though she wanted him to stay near her, she didn't want him by her side. The muddled thoughts in her head frightened her, as she didn't know what to think or how to act around her own brother. Ashamed of herself, her sobs turned silent, her body trembling, insides twisting in agony.

In an attempt to comfort her, Philippe placed his hand on the middle of her back and wrapped his arm gently around her.

"Don't!" she cried, wriggling away. Fear was replaced by anger, a fiery rage she'd never felt before took a strong hold on her. "I don't want anyone near me!"

Philippe rose from her bed and supported his weight by leaning on the bedside table. "Sophia, I won't hurt you."

"I said I don't want anyone near me," she yelled. The urge to bury herself beneath her blankets and pillows overwhelmed her. She wanted to escape from her room, from her clothes and her skin. Everything near her felt like a burden, like an agony she could no longer tolerate. Perhaps Philippe was correct; perhaps she needed to leave. The only part she didn't understand was how she could leave herself and these acidic emotions.

"I can't leave you alone," Philippe insisted. "It's not safe."

"Nowhere is safe," Sophia croaked as she glanced over her shoulder. Her brother was staring at her bruised neck, his concern for her palpable. "Not at night, not during the day, not when my eyes are opened or closed."

Philippe sat in a chair by her bed. He nodded but Sophia knew that he didn't understand what she was saying. He would never know her true feelings, the shame she felt for opening the door and allowing danger into her home, the terror she felt when the leather belt slid around her neck, or the panic that paralyzed her heart when she felt her skirts being ripped away and felt him—the part of him she never saw but knew existed—threatening her flesh and her innocence.

Her hands began to shake, her mind gathering the tiny shards of memory she thought lost forever. Suddenly she remembered the way his legs felt against her hips, how hot his thighs felt against her bare skin. It was a strange detail to remember, but she focused on it, mulling it over in silence as she stared at the wall.

Glancing down, she saw bloody handprints across her night shift and remembered biting his hand. Odd, she thought, as she didn't recall the taste of blood or what he had done in response. All she remembered was Karl sitting on her, attempting to wrench her legs open as she fought him.

"Sophia?" Philippe whispered.

Startled, she blinked and looked up, finding Philippe leaning toward her.

"I need to change out of these clothes," she said absently.

"I'll have Citrine draw you a bath," Philippe answered. His lips quivered, his dark eyes appearing glassy. Her heart broke when she looked into his eyes, her voice abandoning her once more. She couldn't tell him what she felt, what she had experienced. She couldn't tell anyone.

"My God, Sophia, I don't know how to apologize to you for this," he whispered, his voice breaking.

Sophia couldn't bear to see her brother cry for her. Through two funerals and the loss of their land he'd not once shed a tear. Stone-faced and proud, he did what was necessary and led the way for her.

But he'd lost himself somewhere in the night. Perhaps not even Philippe knew what had become of the stern, gruff young man. With his hand over his face, Philippe was suddenly vulnerable, hateful of the world but especially his own weaknesses.

At last Sophia sat on the edge of her bed so that her knees touched Philippe's. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she clung to him, to the one strength she knew would always be with her, to the only anchor she could allow near her.

"Don't make me leave here," she begged. "Please, Philippe, don't punish me for this."

"I'm not punishing you." He pulled away and looked into her eyes. "I want what's best for you, Sophia, but I don't know what that is." With a sigh, Philippe gently placed her hand in his and studied the cloak draped over her legs.

"Sophia," he whispered.

-o-

"Both hands, Monsieur."

Monsieur Belmont stood in Sophia's kitchen and watched Citrine pump water over his spread fingers. Neither of them spoke as she lathered a bar of soap and rubbed her fingers over his knuckles and the front and back of his hands until all the blood was gone.

He was trembling, though Citrine was uncertain if he was cold or upset, though judging by his reddened nose and his vacant expression, she assumed it was both. She wondered what went through his mind, as he had been the first to find Sophia—save for of course, Dublin.

As she handed Monsieur Belmont a towel, she did her best not to stare at his exposed face. His scars were terrible, but Citrine couldn't help but think that she had imagined far worse. She expected his face to be skeletal, raw skin barely covering bone. From the rumors she had heard her first few days of employment she was led to believe that beyond the mask wasa fleshless, skeletal nose and cavernous temple.

Considering his appearance, the wounds he kept covered looked as though they were the result of burns. Gruesome, yes, but not so terrible that she couldn't meet his eye. With the manner in which he reacted, Citrine felt as though he were much more uncomfortable with his appearance than she was when looking at him.

Clearing her throat, Citrine handed him a damp rag. "There is blood on your cheek," she stated.

Monsieur Belmont sucked in a breath before he turned away and brought the rag to his face. His shoulders bunched, his back hunching as he shielded himself from her sight. As she watched him, Citrine wondered if he would return to silence once again, resuming his life as the ghost upstairs.

"Philippe's shirts are too small for you, yes?" she asked. She glanced at her dog, who was content to lie on the kitchen floor with a beef bone between his front paws.

Her employer didn't turn or offer a reply. He was still adamantly scrubbing his face with the washcloth.

"Monsieur?" Citrine questioned.

He shook his head.

"Then shall I find you something clean to wear?"

"I'm fine," he said under his breath.

"Good," she said without emotion. "Help me with Dublin. It doesn't look as though he'll need stitches, but I don't want to risk it."

Before Citrine could continue, their conversation was ended by Sophia's shouting. The rag in Monsieur Belmont's hands fell to the floor, his body drawn toward her panicked voice. The dog immediately abandoned his prize and gave a low growl at the closed bedroom door.

"Philippe is with her," Citrine told him. "Sit down a moment."

"I can't."

The sound of his voice startled Citrine, the desperation and remorse she sensed left her speechless. Standing behind him, Citrine waited for him to turn.

-o-

Erik stood outside Sophia's door, torn between his need to see her and his longing to obey her words. Hearing her voice had stirred his desire to protect her, to do whatever he could to erase the events of this night.

His heart thumped in his chest, the anxiety he felt unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. Erik knew then that his worry for Sophia was genuine, that the emotions he felt were for her and not himself.

As though understanding the situation, Fidelio trotted to the door and nudged it open.

"Dublin!" Citrine scolded.

Erik glanced back at her. "Fidelio, here."

No matter what name they gave him, the dog had his mind set and walked into the room, his tail slowly wagging.


	61. Canine Comfort

NDBRs: I made a few changes per your comments.

Thanks for your reviews and for following my updates!

Paladin61

"He saved you," Philippe said under his breath as he stared at Erik's cloak. "Is that why you wish to remain?"

Philippe's words embarrassed Sophia into silence. As foolish as it made her feel, Erik was the main reason why she wanted to stay. He was kind to her, gentle in the way he treated her, and despite the pain she felt inside and out, she knew somewhere in her heart that Erik was not a man she should fear.

"Sophia, please."

"I don't know," she finally replied, refusing to look her brother in the eye. Nothing seemed clear to her anymore. Her brother's hand around her own was becoming uncomfortable but she didn't want him to leave her. She wanted her privacy but she couldn't bear the thought of silence in the room.

"I know you are fond of him and your lessons," Philippe started. "I'm just…I don't understand."

"There is nothing to understand," Sophia whispered. "I don't want to talk about it. Philippe, please."

With a sigh, Philippe allowed her hand to slip away from his. "You're right. I won't say another word. You should bathe and change your clothes," he said.

"Philippe—"

"Sophia, it will protect you," Philippe stammered. "From—from unwanted…occurrences. At least…oh, Hell…" His cheeks reddened and he looked away from her, which shamed her more than if he had blatantly stated what he was awkwardly referring to. "You understand, don't you?"

"I don't need to take a bath," she whispered.

Philippe immediately looked at her. "Sophia, when these sorts of terrible, wretched things happen to a young woman…any woman at all…"

"I understand," Sophia blurted out before he could finish. She swallowed hard, her hands trembling as her eyes remained on the cloak. She could not bear to look him in the eye, even if it was to soothe his fears.

"Then…?"

Sophia shook her head, not knowing what else to tell him. After a few awkward moments of silence Philippe inhaled.

"Perhaps warm water will put you at ease, then," he suggested. "I will wait until you're ready for bed and then I'll return to stay with you again. Or shall I have Citrine stay with you?"

Knowing that Philippe would not relent, Sophia frowned. "I would prefer to have Citrine here."

"Very well," Philippe said. He started to speak again, but his eyes were drawn to the door as it creaked open.

"Dublin!"

"Fidelio!"

Philippe threw the blankets over Sophia's lap as the dog wandered in, his tail wagging and tongue lolling. He stood for a moment and blinked at Sophia and then at Philippe as though deciding whom he wished to greet first. His dark gaze fell on Philippe, his ears perking up and then quickly dropping.

"Let him sniff your hand," Sophia suggested once she noticed Fidelio's posture had changed.

Philippe, however, made no attempt to move and Sophia turned to see what he was adamantly staring at.

Her breath hitched in her throat. Erik stood outside the bedroom door with Citrine behind him. His lips were parted, his chest heaving with each breath as his gaze darted from her eyes to Fidelio.

"Fidelio," Erik called.

The dog licked his snout but didn't acknowledge his waiting master. His attention was on Sophia, who made no protest in his company.

"Fidelio," Erik warned.

"He's fine," Sophia replied, her voice low. She had no idea how to express how much she needed to have Fidelio near her, to allow her focus to wander to something pleasant and unobtrusive.

Lowering his gaze, Erik nodded and shifted his weight.

"Do you want him back?" Sophia asked.

"Keep him," Citrine piped in. She placed her hand on Erik's shoulder and asked if he wanted sugar with his tea. Without turning to face her, Erik finally nodded, his chin sinking to his chest. His posture and silence reminded Sophia of the first time she had seen him. He'd emerged from his carriage like a shadow, dark and silent, unwilling to communicate. Seeing him now standing at a distance with his eyes trained on the floorboards hurt her. She wondered if he was angry with her for causing so much trouble.

As though he heard her thoughts Erik glanced up and met her gaze. It wasn't until that moment that Sophia realized he wasn't wearing his mask in the presence Citrine and Philippe. Her mouth dropped open but no words emerged, and for an awkward moment they stared at one another, both trapped in their own agony.

Conscious of herself and her dress, Sophia licked her lips and held her uninjured hand out to Fidelio, who turned his attention from Philippe back to her and laved her palm, apparently satisfied in his decision to protect her. After a while he drew back and sneezed and Sophia saw blood in his black nostrils.

"What happened to him?" she asked, looking directly at Erik.

Before he could answer, Citrine stepped closer. "I'm not sure, really. I've been meaning to coax him nearer, but I think he's found who he wants. Will you watch him for me? I'll only be a moment."

Sophia glanced from Citrine to Erik, who met her eye and nodded.

"You should rest yourself," Philippe said to her. "Eat something as well. Citrine, will you make Sophia something to eat?"

"Of course, Monsieur."

"That's a good boy," Sophia cooed, finding more comfort in scratching Fidelio's chin than she had found with anyone else. There was no judgment in his dark eyes, only satisfaction from her praise. His name suited him well, she thought. "What a good, good boy, Fidelio."

When Sophia glanced up again she discovered that Erik and Philippe were staring at one another, both examining the other's appearance. The attention she lavished on Fidelio lessened and the hound whined in protest, butting the top of his head against her knee.

"That's quite enough," Philippe said before he cleared his throat. He turned to Sophia and frowned. "Isn't it?"

"I…" she shrugged.

"Never mind," Philippe sighed. He turned back to Erik and nodded. "A word, Monsieur," he said as he struggled to his feet.

"Philippe, be careful," Sophia warned.

He glanced at her and forced a smile. "Have Citrine take care of you, Soph," he said as he brushed his hand over hers. The last time he had shorten her name was when they were small children. Hearing him say it again made her genuinely smile.

"Monsieur?" Philippe grimaced.

Erik silently stared at Philippe a moment longer before he nodded and turned his attention back to Sophia. He looked as though he wished to speak but turned instead, leaving her wondering what he was thinking. Before he turned fully away, Sophia saw his hand, which had dangled at his side, lift to his face. Citrine, who had been watching, quickly looked away from him and returned to the kitchen.

"May I have a word with you?" Philippe persisted.

Erik paused and glanced over his shoulder at Philippe, his expression hard, his eyes a cold shade of green.

"I must return home first," he said. "Wait here."

Sophia clutched Fidelio's fur and forced herself to look only into the dog's eyes. Her stomach was in knots, her hands starting to tremble.

"Such a good boy," she repeated as he licked her chin. "Such a very good boy."

-o-

Philippe could barely walk but he would be damned if Monsieur Belmont retreated from the house without first divulging whether Karl were alive or dead.

In silence Philippe followed his employer out the front door and into the night where Sophia couldn't overhear their conversation.

"Is he dead?" Philippe shouted once he could no longer keep up. His forehead had started to bleed again and the sensation of a warm, wet trail dripping into his eyes made his stomach turn.

Keeping his back to Philippe, Monsieur Belmont lifted his chin. He shook his head and resumed his pace.

"Monsieur, please!" Philippe begged. "I must speak with you at once."

"Return home," Belmont replied over his shoulder.

Philippe could barely see his surroundings but he forced himself to follow Monsieur Belmont's footprints through the snow.

"I cannot return home," Philippe replied, the anger he felt inside emerging through his words as desperate and pathetic. His incompetence weighed heavily on his shoulders, the irreversible truth of his failure following each step he took. "This night will drive me mad, Monsieur. I must speak with you now."

"Mad," Erik said under his breath as he waited for Philippe to catch up.

"Where is he?" Philippe questioned.

"The smokehouse."

"And he is alive?"

"For the moment," Erik said quietly. With his hand still over his face, he turned and glanced over his shoulder at Philippe. There was no emotion in his gaze, no sorrow or joy, only apathy. "I will kill him. Not tonight, but I will kill him."

The hairs on the back of Philippe's neck stood on end but he decided not to question his employer.

"May I speak to you…regarding Sophia?"

Monsieur Belmont slowly turned and faced Philippe, his hand dropping to his side again. The anxious expression on his face remained, but Philippe knew his employer would listen to him.

Without a word, Philippe followed Monsieur Belmont through the front door of the Manor and immediately dropped into a parlor chair.


	62. The Truth

Paladin62

As much as he originally wanted to protest, Erik couldn't ask Philippe to leave. The hopelessness in Philippe's eyes revealed far too much, and when Erik had seen Sophia and her brother sitting side by side, he had felt unnecessary.

"I must sit down," Philippe groaned. The last Erik had seen of Sophia's brother was him leaning against the wall as he walked down the hall and disappeared into the parlor. Judging by his injury, Erik was certain Philippe would be out cold by the time he walked downstairs again.

Returning to his room to change clothes, Erik wondered when he had ever felt necessary. Certainly he'd never been needed in the opera house. He'd entertained, never served, others in Persia, and that seemed his greatest use. But nowas he stood alone in his room he couldn't bear to think of those days. The opera house had felt like a much-needed holiday to a man who wasn't quite thirty years old. The darkness welcomed him, shrouded him in a world that hid the horrors he had known through his travels. Candlelight muted colors, dulled perception. He no longer merely observed the world around him; he felt it.

But now Erik felt nothing, and the lack of sensation frightened him. Days before he left Persia he'd felt it, this apathy, the indifference between survival and death. The numbness had returned but it had changed—mutated or evolved,he wasn't sure. He merely knew that it existed and that was why he had to see Philippe. Just as with Citrine leading him back to Sophia, Philippe was yet another reminder of humanity.

Returning to the parlor in fresh clothes, Erik looked at Philippe, who was slumped in his chair with a handkerchief pressed to his forehead. He was so pale that Erik was surprised Philippe didn't bleed white.

"Stay here," Erik instructed before he turned and walked to the kitchen.

-o-

Philippe was certain he was about to pass out. He was cold, his vision dark around the edges. His stomach growled from its contents being violently removed hours ago, leaving him thirsty and with a terrible taste in his mouth.

But he would have died for Sophia. Perhaps he was dying for her now. His only solace was that Karl Turro hadn't violated her, which meant that his sister was not in danger of conceiving. Sighing, Philippe was aware of the tears gathering in his eyes but he had no strength to brush them away. It felt as though days had passed since Monsieur Belmont had told him to wait in the parlor. Philippe had no choice but to wait.

Unable to think, Philippe closed his eyes and did nothing more than focus on his breathing, fearing that if he didn't, the next breath wouldn't come.

-o-

Erik was gravely concerned about Philippe's condition. Head injuries were dangerous, and by the looks of it, Philippe was quite fortunate that his neck hadn't snapped.

Erik returned to the parlor with chicken livers from the birds Citrine had killed earlier in the night. They were soaking in wine sauce for tomorrow's dinner, the smell so strong that Erik had to look away when he heated them.

Not wanting to leave Philippe for long, Erik had cooked them for several minutes and shoveled the contents into a bowl. The food didn't appear the least bit appetizing, but taste was of little concern. As he carried the bowl down the hall, Erik had no idea why he hadn't demanded that Philippe remain in his own home. Citrine was the cook and caretaker. He was the one who left a half-dead man bleeding in the smokehouse with his arms sliced open and a bloody, broken face.

Nothing made sense. That was as far as he was willing to reason.

Philippe was sleeping—or he appeared to be falling asleep when Erik opened the door. With Philippe's eyes half-open, Erik couldn't tell if he were exhausted or if the swelling to his forehead had forced his eyes to close.

"Eat," he said as he placed the bowl beside Philippe.

The sound of Erik's voice startled Philippe and he strained to sit up, the handkerchief he loosely clutched slipping from his fingers.

"What is that smell?" he asked weakly.

"Chicken liver. You've lost a lot of blood," Erik answered without looking at him.

"Not nearly enough to warrant eating this," Philippe groaned as he picked at the bowl's content with the fork and examined it. "Liver and what?"

"Wine sauce."

Philippe rested his head against the back of the chair. "I beg your pardon, but it appears that Citrine has planned a cruel and unusual experiment on your stomach's tolerance, Monsieur."

"It will keep you alive," Erik replied.

"Taste it and you may change your mind."

Erik briefly stared at Philippe before he trained his gaze on the piano and found the memories it conjured up unbearable.

"Sophia said that you would find my humor lacking," Philippe continued after he swallowed the last of his food. "I don't know why I'm bothering to speak right now or why I assume you are willing to listen. I don't know anything. I never have. Do you know why I realize this?"

Erik glanced at Philippe and then turned his attention to a picture on the wall.

"Because if I had one scrap of knowledge I sure as hell would not have allowed that man anywhere near my sister." He paused, and for a moment Erik thought Philippe had passed out.

"Sophia never wanted to be near him. I thought it was because she was being difficult and wanted to leave for Paris like her friends and cousin. But it was always him. He was the reason she fought me so and I wouldn't listen to her. And now this has happened. He could have killed her. He could have done many terrible, wretched things to her. He would have…" Philippe choked on his words and lowered his head until his chin touched his chest.

Erik felt his heart begin to pound. All night he had assumed he'd found her too late, but Philippe mercifully revealed the truth.

"He didn't…?"

Philippe shook his head and curled his fingers around his handkerchief. "Thank God you found her, Monsieur. Thank God you saved her."

Neither of them spoke for quite some time. Erik didn't know what to say or how to react, as Philippe had been adamant about instilling strict boundaries between Erik and Sophia. Even if Philippe allowed slack, it was unlikely that Sophia would willingly see him again soon, if ever.

"You're certain…" Erik stammered at last. "That she wasn't…?"

Philippe blinked slowly, his ordeal finally hitting him full force. "You didn't realize?"

"Fidelio attacked Turro. When I walked into your house I found her…" Erik said, his voice fading away. Clearing his throat, he stared at his hands. "The belt…"

"I saw," Philippe said through his teeth.

Erik ran his fingertips along his forehead and sighed. He wondered when the image of Sophia splayed out on the floor would leave him, when the regret he felt like a boulder atop his heart would disappear. He already knew the answer. As long as he saw Sophia, he would never forget this night. None of them would.

It wasn't until a few moments later, when Citrine walked into the house that Philippe started to stand.

"I need to be with her," he explained.

"You haven't the strength to return home," Erik said, thinking that even if Philippe made it to his door he would most likely collapse in the threshold and do himself worse damage.

"It's not far."

"Far enough," Erik grumbled.

"I am of no concern to you," Philippe said under his breath, his dignity and stubbornness outweighing good sense.

"But Sophia is," Erik blurted out, his words catching him by surprise. He stood and turned away, knowing he should retract his words. "I care greatly for her, Monsieur."

"I know," Philippe answered. "I know."

Citrine knocked on the door and popped her head into the room. "Sophia is asleep again. Gabe is sitting outside her bedroom. Shall I spend the night in her room?"

"Yes, Citrine, if you would," Philippe answered.

"I will, Monsieur." She squinted at the empty bowl. "You ate my chicken liver?"

Philippe started to point at Erik, but Citrine shook her head. "Rest, Monsieur." She turned her attention to Erik. "Do you want your dog back?" she asked with a slight smile.

Erik shook his head.

Citrine's smile widened. "I hear you named him Fidelio. You know, Monsieur, I fed him for weeks and now he is your best friend? If I had known that I would have named him Traitor."

Clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth, Citrine left.

Once she was gone, Philippe stumbled to the door.

"There is a spare bedroom upstairs. It's as far as you will make it tonight," Erik warned.

"I'm not returning home," Philippe said. "I plan to kill him first."


	63. The Note pt 1

Paladin63

Citrine tucked the last strand of Sophia's hair back and pinned it.

"There, my dear. I'll tell your brother that you're retiring for the night."

Sophia nodded and settled into bed. She examined her bandaged hand and released a soft sigh. "I don't know if I'll be able to sleep."

With a sympathetic nod, Citrine rose from her seat on the bed and adjusted her shawl. "Rest. Exhausting yourself will do no good, especially since you need rest to heal."

"How do you know so much?" Sophia asked as she arched her back and realized that her hip hurt where Karl had sat on her to hold her down.

Citrine looked away and crossed her arms. "I've witnessed many terrible incidents," she said under her breath before clearing her throat. "Do you have a note for me?"

Sophia studied Citrine a moment, unsure of her friend's words. Nodding at last, she pointed with her undamaged hand at the bedside table. "In the drawer. I was afraid Philippe would see it."

"Quite frankly, I don't believe your brother would mind so much. Monsieur Belmont…he helped you, Sophia. If there were ever a time for Philippe to warm up to him, it's now."

Sophia lowered her gaze, not certain of what to say or do. She still didn't remember enough of what had happened, and now that hours had passed, she wasn't sure if she would ever recall much—or if she wanted to know.

"When I walked in," Citrine said quietly, "I thought Monsieur Belmont would kill him."

"Has he? Killed him, I mean."

"I'm not certain," Citrine replied. "That's not for you to think about, Sophia. You rest yourself. Gabe is here and he won't leave the house tonight. If you need anything you tell him. I'll return shortly."

"How do I thank you?" Sophia asked as she watched Citrine retrieve her note from the drawer.

"By smiling again," Citrine answered before she turned and left.

-o-

Citrine heard Messieurs Belmont and Dupree conversing in the parlor and was pleasantly surprised that they weren't snarling and blaming one another. Given the situation, she was unsure of how the two would react to each other. Monsieur Belmont was a man of few words, and dear Monsieur Dupree was a man of far too many.

Holding her breath, she tip-toed up the stairs, carefully avoiding the weakened spots she knew would creak under her weight. Pulling the letter from her pocket, she carefully placed it on Monsieur Belmont's pillow. With a sigh, she carefully made her way downstairs and checked on the two men, whom she suspected were hurting almost as much as Sophia, but in much different ways.

"Sophia is sleeping again," she announced, smelling wine and liver in the air. She glanced at the bowl stained with wine sauce and blood, then at Monsieur Belmont and Monsieur Dupree.

It appeared as though the two were relating far better than Citrine would have guessed.

-o-

It would be impossible to sleep ever again, Sophia convinced herself. She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering whether or not Citrine had handed the note to Erik or had left it for him. Knowing Citrine she had left it for him, especially since Philippe had followed Erik to the house.

With a low rumble, Fidelio placed his front paws on the bed, then hopped up next to her. Sniffing around, he licked her chin and proceeded to sneeze in her face.

"Oh, Fidelio," Sophia sighed. "Have you no manners, you beast?"

Ignoring her words, the dog sniffed at her bandaged hand. She pulled her hand away and offered her good hand, which he licked before turning around twice and plopping down with an ungentlemanly grunt. Fidelio made certain that he was nestled up against Sophia with his head resting on her leg, his dark eyes partially hidden under a fringe of gray fur.

"Where would I be without you?" she whispered sadly. "I don't think I would be anywhere without you and your master, would I?"

Fidelio nudged his head under her hand and Sophia took a handkerchief from her bedside and dabbed his nose. He protested, and not knowing whether she did more harm than good, Sophia smiled and nodded.

"Brave boy, aren't you?"

The end of his tail wagged at her praise and he stood in order to lave the side of her face, which made Sophia pull away.

"First you sneeze on me and now you offer wet kisses?" she mumbled as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

As though signaling that she should sleep, Fidelio settled down beside her again and closed his eyes. He sighed heavily and wriggled in closer, which made Sophia wonder if he did this to his master. It seemed unlikely that Erik would allow Fidelio anywhere near the bed. With a wan smile, she considered this Fidelio's reward.

Before Sophia herself settled in for the night, she gave him a pat on the head and nuzzled his warm fur, her tears drying as they fell.

-o-

Philippe was convinced that he had enough strength to kill Karl Turro. It would leave little for Erik to do, save wait for Philippe to collapse and allow him no choice but to wait until he regained his strength.

Arms crossed, Erik watched Philippe closely, both irritated and impressed by his butler's tenaciousness. However, pure desire wasn't enough to keep Philippe's feet beneath him, and with the front door still ten feet away, Philippe fell to his knees.

"How will you do it?" Erik asked as he walked up behind Philippe.

"I'll slit his throat," Philippe snapped as he regained his footing and wobbled forward.

"Have you ever slit a man's throat before?"

Philippe paused, bracing himself against the wall. "I'll know what to do when I have his hair in my fist and his wretched neck exposed."

"That wasn't the question," Erik muttered.

"Then what is the question?" Philippe growled, unable to stand a moment longer. The last of his energy managed to carry him to a nearby chair, making his every breath labored. "This is necessary, Monsieur, for honor, for family, for whatever the hell he intended to do to Sophia. I must kill him."

"What will you do with his body?"

Philippe hesitated, his eyes closing briefly as he touched his forehead with his fingertips and came away with fresh blood.

"You think I should let him live?" Philippe challenged. "You think I should allow him yet another opportunity?"

"He should die," Erik said as he turned his back on Philippe. "But you are not the man to kill him."

"Because I don't have it in me? Is that what you believe? You're wrong. I do have it in me to kill him and I will do it," Philippe said. He struggled to find his voice, to stay conscious for another moment.

"And then what will you do? Bury him? Burn his body? Leave him for the crows? Surely you have no intention of leaving a corpse to fester in the smokehouse. You risk disease—"

"I won't risk my sister."

"You will not risk Sophia," Erik said as he turned toward the stairs.

"What will you do? Persuade him to leave France?"

Erik offered no answer. He grabbed Philippe by the arm, hefted him to his feet, and silently helped him upstairs. Once he had him settled in the spare room, he turned away and unbuttoned his sleeves.

"I have never played the part of a caretaker, but if you wish to die, then by all means walk down those stairs and seek your revenge. If, however, you care for your sister then I suggest you stay put. Turro is in no condition to move. Should he chance it, then consider his suicide enough to keep the blood off your hands. Make your choice now."

The only answer Philippe returned was short, labored breaths. Several seconds passed before the sound of two heavy _thunks_ signaled he'd removed his shoes.

"Sleep," Erik growled. "You have two hours of rest."

Philippe nodded in understanding and laid his head back, his eyes closing instantly. His mouth moved as though he were about to say something more but only a sigh escaped. Erik closed the door behind him and heard Philippe stifle a sob. He muttered his thanks before the door fully shut, and for a long moment Erik stood in the hall with his head lowered, feeling he hadn't done enough to earn anyone's gratitude.

Erik returned to his room at last and wiped his face with his hand. It had been a long time since he'd confronted someone face-to-face the way he had Philippe. How many years has it been, he wondered, since he stood before another with his face unmasked and asserted himself.

"Never," he muttered under his breath. He'd never confronted anyone without his mask. But now he had spent the entire evening without wearing his greatest protection. His gaze settled on his dresser where the mask was hidden in one of the drawers. What would happen in the morning?

He wanted Karl dead. There was no mistaking that he wanted to see Karl strung up by the neck or broken and bloodied, but he knew that Philippe would not walk away from the smokehouse a satisfied man if he didn't kill Karl himself. Revenge, Erik thought to himself, often carried a bitter aftertaste, one that Philippe was not prepared to experience.

After he dressed for bed, Erik stole one last glance out the window and found Sophia's room still dimly lit. He stared for a long time, hoping that the light would go out and he would know she was at rest. Perhaps the ordeal had made her afraid of the darkness. What he had craved all of his life could have been her damnation.

With nothing left to do, Erik turned down the lamp and decided to retire for the night. He peeled the covers back and chided himself that it would be impossible to sleep without Fidelio kicking him to scoot over. Grunting, his hand slid over the pillow and touched something cool and smooth. Even in the darkness he could make out the carefully scrolled letters. His name.

Sitting up, he turned up the light and opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper folded in half.

"Sophia," he whispered as he unfolded the paper in his trembling hands.

_Erik,_

_Forgive me._

_I don't know what to say to you or express how I feel. The truth is I don't know what to feel or how to behave. Nothing feels right. Citrine is making me tea. She says she will tend to you and Philippe soon, but Fidelio is by my side. I want to apologize for causing such a disturbance on your estate. _

_I want to hear you play your music again if you will allow it in the future._

_My deepest apologies,_

_Sophia Dupree_

Tear drops smeared her beautiful handwriting, some of them dried and some of them fresh.

"Oh, Sophia," Erik whispered as he carefully folded the letter and placed it back inside the envelope. He felt her confusion in each sentence, her fear in the way she dotted the letter i and hastily crossed her t. He found hope in Sophia addressing him by his first name, which at least hinted that she didn't fear him. It sickened him to think that he could cause her more suffering, as Sophia had been through too much already.

Moving away from the bed, Erik went to his desk and pulled the drawer open. A quick glance at the clock told him he had ample time to respond, wake Philippe, and find out if Karl were alive or dead. Holding his chin in his hand, Erik prepared to write a letter void of threats and deceit, a note unlike any other he had written before.


	64. The Note pt 2

NDBR's: There was a surprising amount of changes in this chapter from what was posted on the board.

Paladin64

Sophia woke sobbing, arms and legs thrashing beneath her tangled bed sheets. The weight of Fidelio's body against her hip had conjured up a nightmare that refused to release her as each dreadful moment was reenacted in her mind.

Arms gripped her shoulders, firm but gentle. With a yelp, Sophia turned rigid, her knees curling toward her chest.

"It's only me," Citrine cooed as she held Sophia close, caressing her frightened companion's hair. What was meant to be a soothing gesture instead felt like needles scraping down Sophia's spine, pin pricks of the misery she feared would never end.

"A bad dream, nothing more," Citrine continued. "I'm here with you, Sophia, and I promise I won't leave. The dream is over, my dear, it's not real."

"It wasn't a dream," Sophia said, bone weary as she fell back on her pillow and covered her eyes with her hands. Fidelio furiously licked her face, lapping up her tears as he whined, voicing his concern.

Citrine nodded. "Gabe is outside the door. Would you like him to sleep in the chair?" she offered.

Sophia shook her head and glanced toward the window. It was almost dawn, but her night of terror seemed far from over. "Where is Philippe?"

"As far as I know he's still with Monsieur Belmont."

Sophia pursed her lips. "They're still together? I thought Philippe would return soon."

"Let me see if he has returned to his room. Or would you prefer to accompany me?"

Sophia nodded and slid her feet onto the floor, shoving Fidelio out of her way. With a grunt he lumbered toward the door, his body wriggling in delight of their impending adventure.

"I'll allow him outside as well since we're awake," Citrine said as they walked down the hall.

Sophia stopped and pushed Philippe's door open and found the bed untouched. She frowned, pulling her shawl tighter as she wandered down the hall to meet Citrine and Gabe, who was rubbing his tired eyes.

"Do you need anything, Mademoiselle?" Gabe asked without looking directly at Sophia. His voice was hoarse from sleep, which he attempted to clear by coughing.

"A warmer house, Gabe, before we all freeze to death," Citrine said with a shiver. "I'm taking the dog outside."

Sophia remained several feet behind Citrine as she opened the door. Fidelio, who had left Sophia to sniff around the armchair, sprinted out the door when he heard the hinges creak.

"Goodness," Sophia whispered as she watched the dog head straight toward a dark form that was nearing the house. The figure, a man dressed only in his evening clothes, had something in his hand that Sophia could not discern. Panic filled her insides and fearing for Fidelio's safety, Sophia screamed.

Gabe braced her by the shoulders before she fell backward, and with her strength exhausted, Sophia allowed him to support her.

"Oh, God," Sophia whispered. She couldn't breathe, much less comprehend, what was happening. "Oh, Citrine, shut the door," she pleaded.

-o-

Erik froze in the middle of the yard when he heard Sophia scream, as he hadn't expected anyone to be awake at such an hour. His intentions were to leave the portfolio by the back door and open the smokehouse, hoping either Karl had slipped into a coma or found good use of the blade Erik had left within reach.

But his intentions were foiled. Citrine and Sophia were awake, as was Gabe. Clutching the portfolio under his arm, Erik felt gooseflesh rise along his arms and the back of his neck. She was still fifty paces away and yet he had frightened her.

His head dropped down as he turned to leave.

"No, no, it's Monsieur Belmont," Erik heard Citrine say over her shoulder. "See? He's coming to check on you."

Erik glanced over his shoulder and saw that Sophia refused to move. She hugged her body as Gabe placed his blanket over her shoulders.

With his gaze fixed on Sophia, Erik hadn't seen Fidelio tear out of the door. However, a dog of Fidelio's size could not be ignored, and with his uncontainable delight, the dog placed his paws on Erik's abdomen and nearly knocked him to the ground.

"Down," Erik said firmly before he bent and grabbed a fistful of the dog's wavy fur and gave him a harmless tug. Fidelio sat, his tail wagging furiously as he waited for his master's approval.

"You best come inside before you freeze to death," Citrine suggested. Sophia remained behind Citrine, her arms folded, closing herself off from everyone.

"With the permission of…the Mademoiselle," Erik stammered.

His eyes met Sophia's and found relief in her gaze. She nodded and motioned him in, clinging tighter to her shawl.

Fidelio, his tail wagging so violently that he nearly knocked himself over, trotted in circles around Erik until he had his master herded to the front door. Once he had Erik on the doorstep he bounded off to finish his business and investigate the smokehouse one last time. The animal released a low growl, which Erik assumed indicated that Turro was still alive.

"Where is Monsieur Dupree?" Citrine questioned, glancing at the yard behind Erik.

"Resting," Erik answered.

"He shouldn't sleep so long, Monsieur. He took quite a blow to the head."

"I woke him an hour ago."

Citrine nodded, seemingly approving of his skills. She cleared her throat and motioned for him to sit. "Did I feed you this evening?" she asked, winking as she reached for her apron.

"I had supper," Erik replied, awkwardly staring at the wall. It wasn't Citrine who made him nervous, it was Gabe standing to the side with his arms crossed.

"Gabe, did you eat?" Citrine asked, giving the horse master's son no chance to reply. "No? I didn't think so. Come with me into the kitchen. Sophia, do you care to join us?"

Erik held his breath as he glanced at Sophia and then at one of the lamps. He was standing in the same spot where he had last held her, where Sophia had come to life in his arms and asked him not to touch her.

"I will stay in here," Sophia said. He knew she was staring at him. Erik felt her eyes on his face but couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze. Cowardly, he thought. He'd always been a coward hiding from the world and now he was a coward hiding from Sophia. She was the one who was injured. Why couldn't he think of her first?

"Very well," Citrine said as she headed toward the front door and whistled. "I will return in a moment."

Fidelio returned once Citrine whistled for him and shook off the snow he'd accumulated from a roll in the yard. Rather than seek his master's attention, he trotted to the rug before the fire, circled twice, and plopped down.

Erik exhaled softly and waited until both Gabe and Citrine were gone before he dared to look at Sophia. Her face was twisted, her tears barely contained.

"I've made a fool of myself," she whispered as she wiped her eyes.

He shook his head, the distance between them unbearable. He could extend his hand to her, take a step or two closer, and gather her in his arms. Many words pulsed through his mind, the sentiments he'd written and ultimately thrown away as he sat hunched over his desk.

"Sophia, I love you." "Sophia, you've nothing to apologize for, you've done nothing wrong." "Sophia, I will do whatever you ask." "Sophia, do you fear me?" "Sophia, do you trust me?"

In the end, there was only one way he knew to express himself, to tell her that he cared very deeply for her. Words were never his forte. He didn't think in terms of dialog, of poetry or prose. His thoughts were etched in scales, F minor, D major…A language he wished to teach her as well.

"Do you wish to sit?" Erik asked at last, keeping his voice low.

Sophia nodded. "Thank you," she said under her breath, seemingly relieved.

"In your room?" Erik asked, uncertain of where she would be comfortable.

She shook her head quickly. "Here," she said.

Together they sat, her chair facing the window and his facing the fireplace. Erik rose after several moments of silence and placed his leather folder in his seat before he added more wood to the fire. He didn't turn to face Sophia, but he felt her watching him again.

"You do not owe anyone an apology," he said, closing his eyes to the growing blaze. "And you've not made a fool of yourself."

Sophia sniffled but didn't reply. Erik felt Fidelio rub against his leg and he turned to find Sophia standing with her hands on the back of her chair. Fidelio released a sigh and trotted into the kitchen, the quest for food outweighing his desire to stay with two awkward individuals suspended in their own uncertainty.

"I feel as though I've ruined everything," Sophia whispered.

Turning, Erik stole another glance at Sophia as she sat with her hands folded in her lap. He shook his head, his mouth agape. "You've done nothing wrong," he said under his breath.

"I know. But I feel…I feel wrong."

Erik nodded. He couldn't tell her that he understood because in truth he didn't. He'd never been abused the way Sophia had suffered.

Everything he wished to say felt scripted and formal, not reflecting how he truly felt inside. He gazed at Sophia and felt his stomach churn, reminded of the first time they had met. As much as he had wanted to convince himself otherwise, Erik had truly enjoyed being near Sophia. She was impossible to unravel; gregarious one moment, coy the next. Their first encounter had revealed a haughty young woman, the next a reserved, innocent girl. As much as he'd always craved control, he found the uncertainty in knowing her to be dangerously enticing, a frightful exhibition in an unfamiliar place.

"May I ask what's in the folder?" Sophia questioned. She paused, pressed her lips together, and gazed at him again.

Her expression had changed, the fear in her eyes softening into something familiar, an expression Erik feared he would never see again. "I ask far too many questions," Sophia whispered.

Erik nodded and lifted the folder, keeping his eyes trained on Sophia. "I have prepared answers to your questions," he said, a weak smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Honestly?" Sophia questioned. Beneath the scattered bruises on her face she reddened with embarrassment.

Erik cleared his throat. "It was a jest," he said under his breath. "I had no intention of upsetting you."

Sophia nodded at last. "The folder isn't thick enough to be answers to my questions." She paused and brushed the back of her hand over her lips. "That was a jest as well."

They briefly stared at one another, tentative smiles replacing dialog. Erik reached for the folder and held it out to Sophia. His hands were trembling still, his palms sweating, but gentle, trustworthy. He hoped she understood the expression in his eyes, a reminder of the promise he made to be patient.

Sophia reached out for the folder, her bruised hand trembling as well.

"My reply to your note," Erik whispered.

-o-

Citrine pressed her index finger to her lips and widened her eyes at Gabe to keep him silent.

"You're terrible," Gabe said under his breath.

"This is necessary," Citrine muttered, daring to peek around the corner at Sophia and Monsieur Belmont.

There they stood before one another, their hands extended. She'd never known two people so obviously in love with each other, so tender and caring, yet afraid to step closer, to feel the heat they both wanted.

It was for the best, she thought, that they were tentative. It would be quite some time before Sophia would allow a man to touch her, to embrace her the way she deserved. Perhaps her nightmares would not return. It was all Citrine could hope, though she knew better. Some fears were carried for a lifetime, tiny seeds buried in one's mind that preferred to grow in the darkness rather than the light.

Gabe placed his hand on Citrine's shoulder. "I will stay and protect her," he whispered.

Citrine smiled to herself before she turned and brushed a soft kiss past Gabe's lips. "He will protect her. Come with me. I want to see if Turro is still alive and how Monsieur Dupree fares. Bring the dog, too."

Fidelio gave Citrine a quizzical look.

"You train horses, Gabe, with any luck, perhaps you could teach him some manners," Citrine said as she patted Fidelio's head.


	65. Comforted, Comforting

A long chapter! I'm now exhausted! Take pity on me and review because I've been sick for almost a week.

Paladin65

Sophia could barely hold on to the leather folder Erik extended to her. Both of her hands were clammy, trembling so terribly she knew he would notice. With a nervous chuckle she grasped it with both hands and forced an uncertain smile.

"This is heavy," she said under her breath as she unfastened the clasp and peered inside at several sheets of paper. "What is this?"

"Music," Erik answered softly.

Sophia smiled weakly, her breath catching in her throat as she studied the first sheet of paper. Her name was written along the top, each letter long and sweeping. He had elegant penmanship, she thought to herself. Masterful, just as she had imagined

In the top right corner was his first name. The way that he wrote it was very different compared to how her own name was displayed. The letters were small, the strokes short, the dotting of the 'i' a violent slash. It appeared hastily penned, she thought. Unable to look away from the page, the distinct differences captivated her.

"Why does it have my name on the top?" she asked obtusely.

When Erik offered no immediate answer, Sophia glanced up at him and saw that his face was crimson. Clearing his throat, he clasped his hands behind his back. "It's…it's the name of the composition."

"Oh," she said, heat rising to her cheeks.

"I wrote it for you several days ago."

"Oh," Sophia said again with a bit more surprise.

He'd mentioned this, she thought. Hadn't he? Yes, she was certain he had told her that he was writing her a song. That seemed so very long ago, so distant. Sophia wanted those days back, those times of quiet moments, of security and warmth. She'd never taken notice of how she felt toward Philippe and Erik until now when her mind was telling her that distance was safety yet her heart wanted everything the way it had been.

"It's not perfect. The piece, I mean to say. It needs work, but I wanted to bring it to you. If you don't…" He exhaled and met her eye. "If you don't like it…"

Sophia's wistful smile widened as her gaze darted from the sheet music to the composer. "Why wouldn't I like it?"

"It's not Mozart."

Sophia shrugged. "Everyone has heard Mozart." Her eyes suddenly widened. "Will I be the first to hear this?"

Erik nodded, the self-deprecation of an artist never clearer than what was reflected in his light eyes that moment.

Hugging the papers to her chest, Sophia looked away, uncertain of herself. "I don't know what to say. Thank you."

Erik visibly swallowed, his sincerity and nervousness a welcomed distraction from the blackness Sophia had felt shrouding her. She knew for certain now that he had read her note, as she had asked him to play for her and he had now given her sheet music. It embarrassed her, as her note was poorly written, her thoughts erratic. She must have sounded like an uneducated farm girl to him.

"I shall assume that you didn't bring a piano with you this evening?" Sophia said with an uncertain laugh.

Erik took a tentative step forward, keeping his left hand on his chair while his right arm remained straight at his side. He was showing her that he wouldn't touch her, she knew, but it brought little sense of security—yet another indication that her life would never be the same.

"I decided against it," he replied with a weak smile.

"A wise decision, I would wager," she said under her breath. A smile crept onto her lips, another flicker of normalcy calming her fears.

"I will play for you this evening if you would like," Erik offered. "If you are rested and in need of company."

"That would be lovely," Sophia answered with a nod as she skimmed through the six sheets of music. When she got to the last page she saw that it was folded in half. Sophia attempted to grab the sheet, but her hands were still shaking. The sheets of music she attempted to shuffle into place escaped her grasp and fluttered onto the floor, most of them landing at her feet. The title page, however, was drawn past the hearth and into the fire.

As quickly as he could, Erik reached into the flames with his bare hand. Sucking in a breath through his teeth, he shook out his hand and watched in vain as the sheet was consumed by the flames, crumbling to ash before their eyes.

"I'm so terribly sorry," she sobbed, having no idea where these emotions had come from. She bit her lip so hard that she expected to draw blood, but only tears came, hotter and stronger than she thought possible. "Please forgive me."

-o-

Erik started to reach for Sophia but drew his hand back, afraid to touch her, yet fearing that if he didn't she would feel abandoned. It was difficult for him to understand, as he'd longed for just one embrace, one kiss for most of his life. To refuse such a simple gesture seemed cruel, but this was what she wanted, and for her he would do anything.

"There's nothing to forgive," Erik said quietly, uncertain of whether or not she heard him through her muffled sobs. His hand reached out to her again, his fingers inches away from her arm. Surely she'd welcome the comfort…or did he want her to comfort him?

He couldn't bring himself to do it, to risk hurting her when he had no idea what was upsetting her. Helpless, he knelt and stared at the singed paper. It was readable, for the most part. What had been burned away he didn't need to see.

"I've memorized it," he said under his breath. "I'll write another, Sophia."

"I'm so careless," she wept.

"It was an accident," he said.

Truly an accident, he wanted to tell her. He'd caused much worse accidents, ones truly worth sobbing over. This accident could be undone. "Please," he whispered, though he had no idea what to say to her. No one had ever sought comfort in his presence. He could kill for her much easier than he could soothe her. "Citrine will return soon," he offered lamely.

Sophia wiped her eyes and pulled her legs up to her chest. "If I hadn't opened the door…" she cried, covering her mouth with her hand. "None of this would have happened."

His lips quivered. When would she allow herself peace, he wondered, as he knelt closer.

"If he had not come here, none of this would have happened," Erik said under his breath.

He studied Sophia while she stared at the floor. The belt marks around her neck created such fury in him that he wished he had already killed Turro. He'd allowed Turro two unspoken choices: Cut through his loose bindings and die somewhere in the snow or wait until he was found the next morning and face his execution.

"You need rest," Erik told her, his voice more stern than he had intended.

Sophia planted her palms on the floor and winced as she applied pressure to her injured hand. Almost immediately she gave up and bowed her head, one last sob escaping before her body shook in tormented silence.

"I should have stayed with you," he whispered. "I knew I should have stayed with you until your brother returned."

And then suddenly Sophia clutched his extended hand, her grasp painfully tight considering her small stature. She pressed down on the burns he'd acquired while attempting to retrieve the sheet of music, but he didn't move, refused to deny her.

Erik felt himself stiffen, his breath catching in his throat as her sobs became louder, briefly turning into stifled wails before she buried her face against his chest.

"Don't leave," she choked, her breath hot against the middle of his chest. "I don't want to be in the house by myself."

Sophia balled her hand into a fist around his shirt as Erik gently placed his palm against the center of her back. Swallowing hard, Erik felt her body tense as she cried harder, so hard that Erik thought she would break into a thousand pieces.

"I'm here," he whispered against her hair. Her tears dampening his shirt, her hands coiled tightly around the fabric. Her head tilted to the side and brushed against his mask, which slid off to the side. As carefully as he could, Erik removed it and set it on the floor.

Closing his eyes, Erik merely sat with his arm gently draped around Sophia. His only fear was holding her too tight, as he didn't know the extent of her injuries. He'd suffered enough beatings in his lifetime to remember how tender and painful bruises were when fresh.

A hollow moan escaped Sophia's lips, her body beginning to relax at last. She suddenly went limp, completely defenseless. With her nestled against him, her body seemed smaller, more fragile than ever as though the night had sapped the life out of her. Unable to see her face, Erik was unsure of whether she was awake or if she had exhausted herself into sleep. It didn't much matter, as he intended to stay as long as Sophia would allow.

Peering out the window he saw the sun break over the trees and snow-capped hills. The pallid sky and stark white snow, pure and undisturbed, framed a fresh day. He wondered if anyone would notice the clear dawn.

She was sleeping now. A final murmur escaped her lips, her arms falling to her sides. Though his back ached and his arms were beginning to cramp, he'd not dare to move. She had sought comfort from a man whose soul was as disfigured as his face. More apt to kill than caress, more willing to fight than seek peace, Erik was more incomplete than he'd ever realized.

"I'm true to you," he whispered. At last he needed no threats and false promises to garner her time and affection. If she loved him it would be because she wanted to love him, which was far more than he'd ever experienced before.

Swallowing the lump wedged in his throat, Erik pressed the good side of his face to the top of Sophia's head and inhaled. The brightness of the stark white snow reflecting the sunlight made his eyes water.

The only consolation he could find while sitting on the floor was that the snow would melt soon. So many wasted years, he thought to himself, spent in the darkness, in unfeeling shadows. Erik relished the warmth he felt as sunlight fell upon them, as the new light warmed his face. At last he felt comforting and comfortable.

He was tired of the cold.

-o-

Gabe and Citrine decided it was more important to wake Philippe than pay Karl Turro a visit. Fidelio, however, disagreed and took to keeping watch.

"You're exhausting yourself, Citrine," Gabe said as they made their way across the yard.

"I'm fine."

"I've had more sleep than you. Return home and rest for a while."

Citrine squeezed his shoulder. "Do you honestly believe I could shut my eyes now?" she questioned with a humorless laugh.

"I don't want anything to happen to you," Gabe replied.

"Once we see how Monsieur Dupree fares I will return to Sophia. Does that fare well with you?"

Gabe, realizing there was little else he could do, nodded and ran his hand down her back. "You're a good woman," he said under his breath.

Once they arrived at the main house, they were greeted by the sound of Philippe moaning, which sent them both flying through the front door and calling Philippe's name.

"Here!" Philippe shouted.

Citrine saw him on his hands and knees at the top of the stairs. With Gabe at her heels, Citrine raced up the steps and sat beside Philippe, brushing his hair back to examine the wound on his forehead.

"You must want us to dig your grave this morning, you foolish man," she said through her teeth. "Must you be so stubborn?"

"Where is Sophia?" Philippe wheezed.

"She's fine," Citrine replied.

"Is she alone?"

"No, Monsieur Belmont is at her side."

"You were to stay with her," Philippe barked.

"Yes, yes, but apparently you cannot be trusted to stay put. Gabe, do you have rope? Tie him to his bed."

"Pardon me?" Gabe said, suddenly alarmed by Ctirne's request.

"You will do no such thing," Philippe replied, appalled by the thought. "Both of you, out of my way. I will look after her if no one else will do so."

Rolling her eyes, Citrine gestured at Philippe. "Remove him from the floor and return him to bed. And make certain he stays there," she told Gabe. "I will stay with Sophia. If you rest yourself, Monsieur, you'll be well enough to return home this afternoon. Sophia would appreciate seeing you again, I'm certain of it."

Without looking at Citrine, Philippe nodded. "How is she?" he asked under his breath.

"As well as could be expected," Citrine replied. Glancing at Gabe, she nodded. "If either of you should need anything, come find me."

Walking down the stairs once more, she decided it was time to see if Karl Turro had survived the night.


	66. Thieves

**An announcement: _A Heart that Waits_ is now available in paperback and hardback! Go to lulu dot com, or go to my webpage and click on Phan Support for more details. If you go straight to lulu, search either the title of the book or by me, Gabrina, and check it out. The cover is awesome! A portion of royalties goes to animal rescue. What could be better than getting a book and helping homeless pets? It could get better! I'm also giving away 3 more posters (my NDBRs got first dibs) of the cover. If you order a book and email me at gabrina at gmail dot com you could get a free poster (the book cover, designed by Jennifer Byrd, layout by Michael Fabian).**

On with the story!

* * *

Paladin66

Citrine wrestled with the smokehouse door until she heard a low moan emerge from inside.Turro was alive. Fidelio growled once the door opened, his prey visible only for a moment. As Fidelio bared his teeth, Citrine knew the dog wanted to draw blood. She had half the mind to allow Fidelio his bloody desire.

"The maid?" Karl questioned.

"Sophia's friend," Citrine replied. There was a skinning knife mere inches from his outstretched fingers and by the marks on his wrists it appeared he had desperately attempted to reach the blade and free himself.

With a kick, she closed the door and heard Karl Turro's rancor, his voice so low and strained that it was more of a curse than a plea.

"All of you will pay for this!" he choked. "For keeping me in here, for threatening my life."

"No one here cares about your life," Citrine replied.

"You ugly thing," Karl hissed. "You stupid, ugly bitch."

Citrine stood very still with her back to the smokehouse and fought to hold her tongue. He shouldn't have survived the night. The pampered bastard should have frozen to death without his expensive goose down pillows and warm, soft blankets.

But he was still alive. God knows he didn't deserve it.

He continued to call her names, some she had been called before by a man of similar social status as Karl Turro. Her cheeks grew heated as she thought of that man, that coward who had invited her into his study for a mere chat. A girl of thirteen, too young to think better of it, she was easily lured into the abandoned room at the end of the hall. There he had covered her mouth and uncovered her flesh. She winced at the thought of it, at what she feared Sophia had experienced.

Citrine struggled with her desire to wrench the door open and kick Karl Turro between the legs. She fought against crying, against allowing this man to affect her. It had taken years to feel completely normal again. Even now she wondered if she had only fooled herself into believing that how she acted and felt were the typical emotions of a woman her age. Her biggest fear was that others would know what she had gone through, would see in her eyes that her innocence was gone.

"You should count each second that passes, each breath that you take," Citrine suggested before she grabbed Fidelio by the scruff and gave him a tug. "You're drawing closer and closer to your last."

* * *

By the time Sophia woke, Erik had lost feeling in his right arm. She hadn't been asleep long, but her awkward position coupled with the way he was sitting on the floor was enough to create tingles in his fingertips each time he attempted to shift her weight.

"What happened?" Sophia asked as she gingerly rubbed her eyes.

"You fell asleep. Only for a moment," Erik replied as he flexed his hand.

The sound of his voice startled her and she turned. By the startled look in her eyes Erik saw that she expected someone else.

"Where is Philippe?"

"My home," Erik answered. He reached for his mask, pins and needles stabbing his fingertips. "Citrine and Gabe went to wake him again."

In silence they scooted away from each other and Erik climbed to his feet. He reached out to help Sophia stand, but she had turned away and rose on her own accord.

"Shall I walk you to your room?" Erik questioned.

Glancing over her shoulder, Sophia nodded. "Thank you." She paused, bracing herself on the chair as she turned to face him. "Has something happened to your hand?"

Erik shook his head.

"Are you certain?"

"I'm fine. Honestly. It was from sitting on the floor."

Erik followed Sophia into her room and stopped once he reached the threshold, uncertain of whether or not his presence was intrusive.

"Would you like me to wait with you until Citrine returns?"

Sophia nodded, looking away as she crawled into bed and covered herself with her blanket. "Your breakfast will be late today," she said under her breath. She sat up rigid, suddenly panicked by her duties being neglected. "It's usually started by now and I doubt Citrine has made coffee or tea. And your sheets will not be changed today. I usually change the sheets today."

"A petty inconvenience," Erik replied. He was about to ask if she needed anything else when the front door opened and Citrine announced that she had returned.

"Is Philippe with her?" Sophia questioned.

Erik turned his attention from Citrine to Sophia and shook his head. "Perhaps this afternoon," he stated as Citrine hung up her cloak and walked toward Sophia's room. Fidelio ran past her and nudged his way into Sophia's room where he loyally stood at her bedside.

"Thank you for staying with her, Monsieur," Citrine said. "I believe you have lost your dog once more."

Erik nodded, sensing Citrine was about to ask him to leave. She had no right to tell him to leave, as this was his property, but one look at Sophia told him that she was exhausted.

"I will play for you tonight," he said to Sophia, offering a single nod before he turned to leave.

"Thank you," Sophia replied before looking away.

The bedroom door closed and Erik heard Citrine call his name. Turning, he found her standing in the hall.

"It is a shame that lately robbers have plagued the countryside," Citrine said as she walked toward him.

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Robbers?"

"Oh, yes, they have been not only stealing from people, but murdering them as well. It would be a shame if a wealthy horse breeder were found robbed on the side of the road, don't you think?" she questioned. "Roughed up a bit, his horse missing, left for dead in the snow."

Erik made no reply. He saw the glint of sadness in Citrine's eyes colored with the hatred she felt for Turro. Her words were not vindictive, her thoughts more necessary than calculated.

With a nod it was mutually agreed that Turro was too much a threat to be allowed freedom, understood that his demise needed careful consideration. His staff would look for him soon, if they hadn't already begun their search.

"Where are these thieves usually found?" Erik questioned.

"Down the road about a mile or two there are thorn bushes growing where the trees are thickest. There are deer trails there from what I've heard with tracks from hunters and thieves alike. Monsieur Dupree once told me that he's seen trappers cut through the orchards."

Erik's jaw tightened and he nodded. It was a trap that had nearly claimed Fidelio's paw. Though he hadn't spent much time there, Erik was aware of what Citrine was describing.

"It would be impossible to tell where the assailants fled, especially since the ground is thawing and the tracks are one on top of the other."

"They dare strike during the day?"

Citrine shrugged. "Some men are more brazen than others. And some aristocrats much too foolish to bother watching for danger, such as our beloved Monsieur Dupree."

"Perhaps they were together," Erik said, his gaze darting around the room, his mind wrapped around a feasible explanation for Turro's demise.

"Perhaps they were both perusing old record books, as everyone knows that they were to be business partners. It's a shame Monsieur Turro was attacked first, don't you think? And so far away from where anyone would have been able to assist them."

"Indeed," Erik muttered.

Covering her mouth, Citrine yawned. "I will have your breakfast soon. You will need sustenance after riding across the property to find Monsieur Dupree."

Erik paused. "Sophia? She was with them, then?"

Pursing her lips, Citrine gave a tentative nod. "She will not take visitors for quite some time, Monsieur."

Erik gave a curt nod.

"Monsieur, if he were a man worth saving he may have been found in time," Citrine said quickly. She wrung her hands, her face becoming taut. "Such as Monsieur Dupree, who would do anything for his sister."

"Care for Sophia," Erik said over his shoulder as he turned on his heel and lumbered out.

Erik didn't bother to glance at the smokehouse as he walked into his own home, up the stairs, and into the room at the end of the hall where Philippe was arguing with Gabe. It still surprised Erik that, even with a concussion, Monsieur Dupree was a surly as ever. The man either had too much pride or not enough sense.

"If you and that damned Citrine think for a moment that I will be tied to a bed," Philippe barked.

"How far is the overseer's house by horseback?" Erik questioned, garnering Philippe's attention. Gabe swiftly excused himself from the room, but Erik stopped him with a glance and told him to saddle two horses.

"Excuse me?" Philippe groaned. "Why in the hell would you wish to travel there?"

Slamming the bedroom door shut, Erik took up a seat by the bedside and stared hard at Philippe. Several seconds passed and Philippe was sitting up uncomfortably, an anxious look in his eye.

"That is where Turro will be found," Erik explained. "Listen closely. I loathe repeating myself."


	67. Attack

Paladin67

"You mean to plot his death?" Philippe asked once Monsieur Belmont finished speaking.

Everything he'd read in the paper concerning the opera house disaster came rushing to mind. For weeks—months, really—he'd attempted to block out the thoughts that their Monsieur Belmont was the Phantom of the Opera. Now it seemed impossible to ignore. The only part Philippe didn't understand was how this supposed heartless monster had come to care about and save Sophia.

"As far as I'm concerned, he's already dead," Erik replied.

"Natural causes," Philippe replied dryly. "The result of first being beaten and then freezing to death."

"As natural as your sister's injuries…and your own," Erik growled.

Philippe held his hand over his mouth, refusing to look his employer in the eye. Sleep had brought his blurred, angry thoughts into focus. He hated himself for his sensibilities, but it seemed someone needed to maintain rational thought.

"Monsieur, it is not that I believe he deserves to live…"

"But you will allow him to live," Belmont spit. Angered, he clutched the arms of the chair and began to rise to his feet. "And allow him the opportunity to kill your sister the next time?"

"If need be, I will take Sophia away from here and he'll never be able to find her again," Philippe challenged.

Furious, Erik glared at Philippe, his hands visibly shaking. His lips twitched, most likely with unspoken threats. If Monsieur Belmont truly was the dreaded Phantom, why didn't he voice his threats? Philippe wondered.

"I would prefer not to hang," Philippe stated softly, clasping his hands. "And you yourself may find that murdering a man such as Karl Turro brings you closer to a noose. It seems you avoided death in Paris. Dare you chance it here?"

Monsieur Belmont froze, staring Philippe hard in the eye. If nothing else, Philippe knew he had his employer's attention.

"I read the papers carefully," Philippe said under his breath. "My aunt never said anything outright, but I've had my suspicions since the day you arrived. A masked entity, an extortionist in an opera house…a masked composer with his pockets filled suddenly arriving here. A half-wit could have assumed as much."

Monsieur Belmont had visibly paled, his breaths coming harsher. Philippe couldn't tell if he was angered or anxious, but he knew by the tense stance the composer had taken that he was prepared to leave at once.

"There must be a reward," he said under his breath.

"Nothing worth more than my sister's life," Philippe replied. He stared hard at Monsieur Belmont, finding the initial fear in the estate owner's eyes had ebbed. "My words are by no means threats, Monsieur. Given all that has happened, you needn't worry about gendarmes searching your land."

With his jaw clenched tight, Erik nodded and settled back into his chair.

Philippe adjusted the pillow behind his back and sighed. "Paris does not concern me. My concerns are for this moment and nothing more. You must understand that if anyone suspects that you left Turro's body by the overseer's house, there will be severe consequences," Philippe loudly whispered. "Not only for you, either."

"Then Sophia will explain—"

Philippe shook his head. "She would never tell what that…that bastard attempted to do to her. No woman would disgrace herself in that manner…take the blame…"

Monsieur Belmont grit his teeth and forced a nod. "Then I shall be very cautious indeed."

"We will both watch our steps," Philippe sighed, silently praying that Turro would already be dead by the time they returned to the smokehouse. "I must change out of these clothes. Give me a moment and I will have Gabe saddle the horses."

Rising to his feet, Monsieur Belmont strode toward the bedroom door. He kept his back to Philippe, his head bowed.

"Does she know?" he asked.

Philippe gingerly tested his legs. "She's never said a word to me. Reading, Monsieur, is often difficult for her, and I believe it is better for her if she is not troubled with…such outrageous news. She's an innocent young woman. I do hope she retains her incorruptibility, if you will."

"The smokehouse," Erik said, glancing over his shoulder. "Fifteen minutes."

-o-

Gabe was waiting outside the door for Philippe, who was still attempting to blink away the fuzzy edges of his vision.

"What are you doing here?" Philippe snapped.

"Monsieur Belmont said to make certain you didn't crack your head open on the stairs," Gabe answered quite snidely. He had his arms crossed and an apathetic expression on his face.

"Here," Philippe said, handing Gabe an envelope. "See that this is delivered immediately."

Gabe glanced at the address before he tucked it into his shirt pocket. "Shall I walk down with you?"

Answering with a glare, Philippe set off on his own.

-o-

Erik could barely harness his breathing as he stood in the kitchen and stared at the back door.

Philippe knew everything.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Fleeing—because that's exactly what he was doing—was supposed to bring anonymity. But apparently that would never happen no matter how far he traveled.

It horrified him that Sophia would discover his past. Every man made mistakes, but he'd created more than the mere follies most men make. He'd created disasters -- deadly, despicable "accidents" in the opera house…and many more before. No matter what he did for her now, the past could not be ignored, and Erik had a feeling it would not be forgiven either.

Hearing Citrine's voice, Erik forced himself to stand taller and consider the task immediately at hand. Karl Turro.

In the back of his mind, Erik knew that Philippe was correct.

No simple solution existed, unless Turro had frozen or bled to death. If they found him alive, however…

Karl Turro could very well walk away and give his word to never come near the Manor or Sophia again, but his word meant nothing. Then, having no guarantee of Sophia's safety, Philippe would take his sister away from the countryside, which for selfish reasons Erik didn't want.

Suddenly the air was punched from Erik's lungs as the irony of juxtaposition hit him. Allow Turro to live and Sophia leaves. Kill him and she stays…perhaps.

_Choose your lover and it leads to his death, choose me and I'll set him free._

Erik's stomach knotted, bile rising in the back of his throat. Another decision, another calculation between life and death, love and loss writhed in his belly. Phantom or not, he would always be haunted by that night, by a situation that in retrospect was clearly a mistake.

This day would only prove to be another apparition looming at his back.

As much as he wanted to find Turro dead, a part of him wanted the bastard to remain alive and able to fight. Revenge, vindication, a sweet vendetta loomed if Karl Turro was strong enough to fight. Not a simple murder, a slice across the throat, a rope around the neck, but a good fight. He'd left Turro with a knife and the challenge of sawing through his bindings. If he freed himself and kept the knife, he was armed and justifiably dangerous. No longer a brutal murder, Erik thought, but a necessity. He didn't much care if it was a fair fight. Turro had lost his right to clean sparring the moment he attacked Sophia.

"Mine," Erik growled under his breath.

His property invaded, his life once again caught in a downward spiral, his precious Sophia brutalized. Those were his reasons to undo Turro, to terminate the threat that would otherwise loom in their lives. Erik glanced at the clock in the kitchen. It was time to draw the beast from its temporary cage.

He only hoped it wasn't too late.

-o-

Fidelio was restless.

As much as Sophia attempted to pet him and keep him at her side, the hound would have no part of it. With his rear in the air, he sniffed and scratched at her bedroom door until his incessant whining was too much to bear.

"You must have given up on me," she murmured, rubbing his head. "Have I not spoiled you?"

Fidelio sighed, plopping down hard to vigorously scratch his ear before he gave a full-body wriggle and set to scratching his way through the bedroom door.

Giving him one last scratch behind his ear, Sophia frowned, and decided that she trusted Fidelio's instincts.

"Return to your papa," she said before she opened the bedroom door and followed him down the hall. He slipped as he rounded the corner and before encountered Citrine.

"Oh, a typical man," Sophia heard Citrine mutter. "Spend the night with two ladies and then out in the morning you go. Out, you mutt. Go brag to your master, eh?"

Sophia stood in the kitchen doorway and shivered as Citrine opened the door to let Fidelio out.

"How do you feel?" Citrine questioned once she saw Sophia.

"Terrified."

Citrine nodded. "In pain?"

"Yes and no."

"I understand," Citrine said as she sighed and locked the back door.

Sophia made no reply. She didn't need to know more.

"Will it stop?" Sophia whispered, her voice breaking.

Citrine reached for a wooden spoon but stopped herself and strode instead to the doorway where Sophia stood. Wrapping her arms around Sophia, she held her tightly and kissed her cheek.

"There is no starting and stopping. Think of it as holding and releasing."

-o-

Philippe found Monsieur Belmont standing in the kitchen in his day clothes, his back bent and head down. He stood rigid, as though at any moment he would turn on his heel and attack.

"Shall I meet you here or at the smokehouse?" Philippe questioned, remaining a cautious distance away.

Belmont visibly jumped at the unexpected company. "It doesn't matter."

The edge in the estate master's voice had turned to doubt, though Philippe wasn't certain if Monsieur Belmont doubted himself or the task at hand. Perhaps both.

"Here, then," Philippe said as he turned to leave. He waited a moment for Monsieur Belmont to answer, but his employer made no attempt to move. With nothing else to add, Philippe turned and walked out through the front door of the house.

The moment the cold morning air hit his face, Philippe couldn't deny the torrent of loathing that he felt drawing him to the smokehouse. He had to know if Karl still breathed.

With a violent tug, Philippe heard the door crack at the bottom before it gave and opened. The physical exertion threatened to bring him to his knees, but unadulterated hatred kept him upright. The back of his neck pricked with a barrage of feelings that Philippe had thought was finally settled and smoothed away by rational thought.

Once the door was open, Philippe's mind went numb.

"Son of—" Philippe started, finding the smokehouse empty. The ropes had both been cut and blood stained the ground.

Heart racing, Philippe grasped the doorframe and glanced inside the dark confines before he pushed off the wall, fearing for Sophia and Citrine's safety.

He'd barely turned when his feet were taken out from beneath him. Blood spurted before his eyes and his neck turned wet and warm. Down on his knees, he reached for his throat and drew his hand away, his fingers stained with blood. He gasped, feeling the sting from his wound and the realization of what had happened. Unable to react, he planted his free hand in the snow and attempted to stand. What felt like a club hit him in the kidneys and forced him facedown. A terrible, beastly growl drowned out his thoughts as he turned from his belly to his back and attempted to make sense of the world around him before it went dark.


	68. The Skinning Knife

Happy spring! Thanks to everyone for their reviews and an extra special thanks to Teresa for editing and to all the NDBRs for commenting on the previews. Everyone, especially MadLizzy, helped me find directions for this chapter in particular. You ladies have no idea how much your feedback means to me.

Paladin68

With a curse Karl dropped the skinning knife, his hand too sore from being stabbed through to form a fist for long. Stumbling, he dropped to one knee and regrouped, a bloody grin of satisfaction touched his lips as he watched Philippe Dupree collapse and reach for his throat.

The damage was done.

Panting and barely able to stand, Karl had waited, had watched from behind the smokehouse as Philippe lumbered up. The gash to his forehead must have made him lazy and unaware of his surroundings, as the attack was far too easy, yet satisfying.

Karl started to stand, madly hoping he could climb to his feet and flee. No one would find him, he told himself, no one would touch him. He'd arrive home and his servants would care for him. By nightfall the gendarmes would know of his kidnapping and torture and the hideous beast that owned this land would be sent to his death.

His erratic thoughts were terminated with a skull-rattling thump that left him stunned. With a grunt Karl fell face first into the snow, his shoulder pinned. Before he could react, fiery pain pierced the back of his neck, the bite wounds he'd received the night before torn open once more.

It was that damned dog again, growling in Karl's ears as its massive jaws clamped harder, sinking into muscle and tendons. Karl growled in return, clawing at the animal's eyes and snout, grimacing and cursing as the beast held tighter and ripped through his flesh.

Karl fought to crawl forward, his hand pierced through by the fire poker groping for the fallen knife. He saw the blade glinting in the sunlight, its handle partially buried in the snow. One slice across the throat and the dog would befall the same fate as Philippe Dupree, whimpering as its life spilled onto the snow.

At last his fingers wrapped around the knife in one last, desperate stand.

If he were destined for hell, he wasn't going alone.

-o-

Erik walked out his front door and saw a streak of gray tear across the yard. At first he thought it was Fidelio coming to greet him, but the dog ran with its head down and back rigid.

He was in pursuit.

As Fidelio released a growl and disappeared behind the smokehouse Erik's gait turned from a walk to a trot, fearing Karl had indeed escaped. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, his heart racing as he rounded the corner and heard a groan at his feet.

Digging his heels into the snow, he discovered Philippe doubled over, his hands at his throat.

"My God."

The snow was stained with blood, as were Philippe's hands. Erik started to reach down, fearing Philippe had already bled to death when he moved, turning from his side to his back. His face was bone-white, eyes wild and fearful.

Karl garnered Erik's attention before he could examine Philippe. Turro released another strangled groan as he attempted to turn from his belly to his back while Fidelio continued to wrestle with his prey. Light glinted off something in Turro's bloodied right hand, and suddenly Erik spotted the skinning knife he'd ignorantly left behind.

"Fidelio!" Erik yelled, as he lifted his foot to kick Turro in the face and send him belly-first into the snow.

Turro's nose and mouth dripped with blood, his teeth loosened, cheeks swollen. He glared at Erik as he struggled to stand and fight.

"For months I've been trying to kill that worthless dog. That little whore took him in, that ugly Irish thing you keep in your kitchen. Worthless, filthy…"

Erik ignored Karl and crouched beside Philippe. "Take your hand away from your throat," he requested, an air of calm about him.

"Where are the girls?"

"In the house. Take your hand away from your throat. Now."

"I'll bleed to death," Philippe gasped.

Blood and death had never bothered him much, though his steady words were for Philippe's sake. Erik had seen men react to panic around them, outside influences proving detrimental to their situation. By the look of him, Philippe needed no more reasons for alarm.

Erik lifted a brow and grabbed Philippe's wrist, exposing the cut to his butler's throat. For the amount of blood and what Erik expected to see, he sighed in relief. The slice was shallow, shaving off a layer of skin rather than cutting an artery, which explained why there was so much blood. The wound had been administered to Philippe's chin rather than his throat, giving him a painful but not mortal injury.

"Am I dead?" Philippe questioned.

"You're too stubborn to die. Hold this to your neck," Erik said as he handed Philippe his handkerchief.

"My throat is cut."

"Your chin is cut," Erik corrected, packing a handful of snow in the handkerchief.

"But-but I saw the blood. He cut straight to the bone," Philippe stammered.

"Not quite," Erik muttered before he abandoned Philippe for the man who wouldn't live past the hour.

"I had her first," Karl snarled, spitting blood. "I took her first, gave her my seed. Trust me, you mangled bastard, she wasn't that good. But I'm sure you'd never know the difference."

Stalking toward Karl, Erik grabbed him by the shirt collar and pulled him up, his every intention set on breaking Karl's neck. With a grunt Karl glanced down and Erik followed his gaze, finding the skinning knife buried deep in Turro's belly. Turro still clutched the guard, his hand coated in a sticky layer of his own blood.

"This isn't over," Karl said through his teeth, his words slurred with pending death. Blood pulsed from the wound, his torn white shirt turning bright red around the protruding blade.

Erik didn't say a word. He shoved Karl onto his back and looked to Fidelio, who bared his teeth, tail wagging in anticipation of pleasing his master.

"Guard," Erik said sternly as he pulled the knife free, cleaned it in the snow, and returned it to the smokehouse. As he walked out of the building, he glanced at Karl, who was still writhing in the snow, before he turned his attention to Philippe.

His butler was as pale as a ghost and breathing raggedly. Without asking Philippe if he needed help—as he knew the stubborn ass would deny aid—Erik grabbed Philippe by the arm and pulled him to his feet.

"I can walk," Philippe said stubbornly.

"Highly unlikely," Erik muttered under his breath. He felt Philippe attempt to hold his own weight but failed as the realization of what had happened began to sink in.

"Where are we walking?"

"My home."

"No, I need to see Sophia."

Erik's pace slowed. "And further upset her?"

Stumbling, Philippe cursed and nearly dropped the handkerchief at his neck. He muttered something under his breath but kept walking, pausing only when they reached Erik's front door.

"Is he dead?" Philippe questioned without glancing over his shoulder. Blood and melting snow dripped down his trembling hand. "If he's not dead, then leave me here. I won't have him after my sister and Citrine."

"You're in no condition to stand guard," Erik replied, thinking it a shame that the knife hadn't nicked the tip of Philippe's constantly moving tongue.

"Someone must stand guard," Philippe argued weakly.

Erik glanced back at the body in the snow and the dog standing over its prey. Whistling, he called Fidelio to his side and the dog wasted no time in answering his master. The body in the snow remained motionless. It would need to be moved soon, Erik thought, especially if they didn't want to upset Sophia. From where Karl's body lay, he wasn't visible to Citrine or Sophia—as long as they remained at home. Judging by what Citrine had said earlier she wasn't concerned about Karl's livelihood. Though Erik couldn't expect her to mourn Turro, he assumed the sight of a body in the snow would cause her distress.

"If he's able to move he'll be after Sophia. Monsieur, you don't understand—"

"It's over," Erik replied before he ushered Philippe into the house and left him sitting in the kitchen with a towel replacing the bloodied handkerchief.

"Citrine will stitch your chin," Erik said as he turned to leave.

"Monsieur—"

"Stay here."

"Did you kill him?" Philippe blurted out.

Slowly Erik turned and faced Philippe. He shook his head, his eyes cold and hard. "He fell on the knife and killed himself."


	69. Sleep

Paladin69

Erik moved Karl Turro's body to the other side of the shed and kicked the blood-covered snow around. The chickens that had gathered, drawn to the blood in the snow, squawked and scattered as Erik made his way around the structure. They fled once Fidelio ran through and chased them back to the henhouse, where he stood and barked, his tail wagging at his accomplishment.

After the body was moved, Gabe returned from the stable and nervously stood at a distance from Erik.

"He's…isn't he?" Gabe questioned.

"Yes."

Erik didn't bother to glance at the stable hand. He wasn't certain why, but he felt sick after he removed the body from the snow. While he had no regrets, Erik had no idea what he felt inside. All he knew was that his stomach felt as though it had flipped over in his gut, which he passed off as hunger for the moment.

"The horses are saddled. Three of them."

Erik rubbed snow over his hands and shook off the icy drops before he stood at his full height.

"Where is your father?" he questioned Gabe.

"He's been gone since yesterday afternoon. His sister is ill."

Erik nodded once. "Tell Mademoiselle Citrine to tend to Monsieur Dupree."

Gabe didn't move immediately. He glanced around, his hands balled into fists. "Where is Monsieur Dupree, Monsieur?"

"My home. He suffered a cut to the chin, nothing that threatens his life," Erik replied.

As Erik continued to smear the blood to hide evidence of Turro's death, Gabe wandered away.

Blood had never bothered him. He'd trained himself to feel indifferent toward pain and death. Long ago, when he first stood watch as the executioner sent men to their deaths, he'd felt a sense of remorse, and anxiety he was told would vanish once he became accustomed to death.

There was no reason why he couldn't find it in himself to look on without emotion. No one had cared for him—he cared for no one. It was simple, explainable. As with everything else in his life, it had fit and made sense.

But now nothing made sense. Every few seconds he glanced up and scanned the windows of Sophia's home to make certain she didn't see him. He didn't want her to watch this, to see him as heartless and cold. He needed someone to see him as human.

Citrine appeared with a wooden box under her arm as Erik finished clearing the area.

"You've made quite a bit of mud," she commented as she stopped at the edge of the white snow.

"He's dead," Erik said as he nodded toward the smokehouse. "After nightfall I'll remove the body." From the corner of his eye, Erik saw Citrine shiver. It bothered him, but he chose neither to look at her nor speak another word on the matter.

"Sophia is sleeping," Citrine announced, which garnered Erik's attention. He froze and stared at his feet as he waited for Citrine to continue. "Monsieur Dupree was cut, Gabe tells me. Nothing serious, I do hope."

Erik glanced over his shoulder. "Sew him up or bandage him. It doesn't appear deep."

"Would you stay in the house with Sophia? She has expressed that she doesn't want to wake up alone."

As he turned to face Citrine, Erik's gaze darted around the yard. Would she see it in his eyes, he wondered? Would she know that he was a killer, a vicious monster?

I didn't kill him, he reminded himself. Turro brought death upon himself.

"Monsieur?" Citrine questioned.

Erik nodded at last. "Yes, of course."

-o-

Sophia's bedroom door was ajar when Erik walked into her home and awkwardly looked around for a place to sit. He was unsure if he should sit within view of her or if he should sit close to the fire.

After so many years beneath the opera house the cold didn't bother him much, but digging his hands in the snow was completely different, and he had started to shiver. His pant legs were damp and were muddy at the knees and along the shins, which made him uncomfortable. While he listened for signs that Sophia was awake, he stood before the fire with his hands outstretched and closed his eyes.

Now that the worst was over, exhaustion hit him full force. He teetered back on his heels, drifting to sleep as he stood. If he continued to stand much longer, he feared that he'd fall backward or forward into the fire. As he rubbed his eyes, Erik resorted to seating himself near the fire where he draped a blanket over his shoulders. It did nothing to keep him from shaking, and as he settled in he realized that his trembling had nothing to do with the cold.

Karl Turro's reign of terror on the Manor should have come to an end, but Erik feared there was more to come. Erik felt no sense of revenge or triumph; he felt miserable. The damage was done. Turro's death did nothing to erase what Sophia had experienced.

His thoughts were disturbed by a scratch at the front door that signaled Fidelio had tired of tormenting the hens. Once Erik opened the door, the dog padded in and found his spot by the fire. He circled twice and then flopped down, his tail thumping the floor.

Erik glanced at Sophia's door and sighed before he closed his eyes, thinking Fidelio had the right idea. Citrine wouldn't be gone long, but even a short nap was better than nothing. Perhaps sleep would bring clarity, and clarity was what he needed. He despised feeling out of control, and for the past twelve hours he'd felt himself spiraling toward hell.

-o-

Sophia woke with a start and jerked in bed. Her mouth was dry, her face sore. As she stirred beneath the sheets, she blinked and wondered how much time she'd spent asleep. By the angle of light through the bedroom window it must have been late in the morning, which made her feel completely unproductive.

As if on cue, her stomach growled to confirm it was time to rise and eat. Hopefully once she walked down the hall she'd smell what Citrine had made for lunch, as waiting any longer seemed an impossibility.

Sophia shrugged into her robe, her right hand still bruised and tender. After several moments of tying the belt, she wandered down the hall and found the house quiet. Once she reached the end of the hall, however, she discovered that she wasn't alone.

The curtains in the sitting room were drawn, which made the room too dark for her strained eyes to see anything clearly. In the soft glow of the firelight she saw a pair of long legs stretched out from the fireside chair, and that made her smile. The dog snoring at his feet proved equally endearing.

Sophia folded her arms and watched Erik for a moment as he slept. He looked peaceful, his breaths deep and even, lips slightly parted. He muttered incoherent words before he licked his lips and exhaled, oblivious to the world around him.

He was hardly a man she expected to find defenseless, but there he was by the fire with his faithful dog at his feet. She found it charming; her sleeping sentinel. Finding him there softened the rough edges of his gruff personality, added humanity to a man who appeared a loner. Sophia wondered if Citrine had asked him to stay while she played nursemaid to Philippe—or if Erik had gone to Citrine and asked her to stay with Philippe. She couldn't imagine anyone volunteering to stay with Philippe, she thought with a wry smile.

"Don't touch me," Erik muttered, his legs shooting straight out. He drew a sharp breath before he exhaled and settled again.

Sophia blinked, frozen in her spot no more than five paces away. He wasn't a man who had enjoyed many moments of peace, she thought sadly. It seemed that not even sleep released him.

Her instincts to care for Erik emerged full force, as she needed to focus on someone other than herself. With a gentle smile, Sophia reached back and unfurled another blanket warmed by the fire, her absolute favorite feeling. It would settle him, she told herself, the warmth and comfort of a soft blanket. Perhaps it would bring him pleasant dreams.

The crocheted wool had barely touched Erik's knees when he shot up and snatched it from her hands. With a yelp, Sophia sprang back and barely avoided landing on Fidelio's tail.

Erik immediately stood and turned away, his right hand over his face. He touched the mask, both hands groping at the white leather to make certain it was in place before he turned to face her.

"Sophia?" Erik questioned, his voice husky from sleep.

She could only nod.


	70. Closer

Paladin70

Sophia visibly trembled as she stood with Fidelio at her side. It had taken Erik a moment to realize where he was and who was near him, as his dreams had cornered him, trapped him in a hell he relived week after week.

He breathed heavily, his palms damp and his mouth dry. Each crackle of wood in the fireplace reminded him of the sickening sound a stick to flesh created. He'd dreamed of iron bars and straw, of a crowd gathered 'round to humiliate a frightened child.

Gooseflesh rose along his arms, the shadows in the room deceiving his mind. In his dream Karl Turro had held the key to his cage, and across the darkened tent Erik had seen Sophia in a cage of her own. How far away she had seemed, how alone and helpless she had appeared.

Without a word, Erik glanced at the floor and saw two blankets at his feet. The cage he felt surrounding him was only in his mind.

"You startled me," he said under his breath as he scratched the back of his hand.

"Likewise," Sophia replied. She remained at a distance, smaller in his presence, fearful of him. His nightmare no longer frightened him alone.

"I'd only closed my eyes a moment ago."

Sophia exhaled and garnered his attention. She half-smiled and met his eye before she looked to Fidelio and spoke. "You've been asleep for quite some time," she said as Fidelio licked the palm of her hand.

Erik stared at her and shook his head. "I sat only a moment ago," he argued, knowing full well it was useless.

Sophia watched him from the corner of her eye and her smile widened. "I made soup while you slept. It's been at least twenty minutes, possibly longer."

The thought of food made his stomach sick with hunger. Again he stared down at the blankets, uncertain of whether her words were a mockery or an invitation.

"You were restless when I walked in here," Sophia said quietly. "I thought another blanket would put you at ease, but I woke you instead. My apologies."

Erik's lips parted but no words emerged. He didn't know what to say to her.

"My grandmother made this for me a long time ago," she said as she neatly folded the one she had intended to place over his legs. He noticed how she continued to favor her right hand, wincing each time she bent her fingers. "I dragged it with me everywhere I went, and my mother asked my grandmother to make me another one. Of course, I wanted nothing to do with the new one. This one was familiar to me…preferred, I suppose. The other one was very pretty, though. I don't know what became of it."

With a wistful smile, Sophia looked at him again. "Sit if you'd like and I'll check the soup. It should have cooled by now."

Erik stepped forward and took the blanket from her hands. "Sit," he said as he stared into her eyes, their fingers touching.

The corners of her lips turned up in a coy smile. "Do you mean to ask me to sit or are you telling your dog? I've confused your commands before."

Erik bent his head until their foreheads were so close they almost touched. He grasped her left hand, lacing her fingers with his.

"For the dog it is a command, for you a mere request for your company," he murmured.

"You confuse me," Sophia whispered. "Truly, completely, you keep me in very tight knots." Erik started to shake his head, but Sophia nodded. "I feel at ease when you're near me and yet when I see you I cannot think straight."

Erik nodded slowly and ran his thumb along her index finger. He felt her lean closer to him, her hand squeezing his tighter.

"Am I speaking nonsense?" Sophia questioned.

Erik brushed his lips past her forehead. "Not at all."

-o-

"Fortunately for you," Citrine said as she sat on a stool and cleaned Philippe's wound, "it appears your neck is just as thick as I suspected."

Philippe lay perfectly still on the parlor couch with several towels at the back of his neck and another protecting his opened shirt. He no longer bled freely, which allowed Citrine a good look at his injury. The skin had been sliced away which resulted in a flap still attached near his dimpled chin. Painful and ghastly, but in no way life threatening.

"How does your head feel?" she questioned, which earned her a glare. "Your eyes no longer appear dilated. I suspect you feel as though your head is splitting in two?"

"Just stitch me up," Philippe mumbled, attempting to hold his face still.

Brushing his hair back from his forehead, she ran a cloth over his face and told him to close his eyes. With a ragged sigh, he obliged, his body remaining tense.

"What you did for Sophia was very brave, Philippe," she said quietly, using his given name rather than his surname.

"Just…"

"You risked your life for your sister," Citrine continued as she heated the needle, sterilizing it before she applied it to Philippe's wound.

Philippe's jaw tensed. "I should have done more," he said between his teeth.

Citrine began to sew the laceration together, which kept him silent. What more could he have done? She wondered. He wasn't a violent or combative man; he was a butler now, and before his duties at the Manor he had tended to a vineyard.

"It's over now," Citrine replied softly.

"His body is still out there."

"Yes, Monsieur Belmont moved it into the smokehouse."

Philippe's body was pressed hard against the couch as he attempted to escape the pain. His breaths came harder and faster as the pain increased with each pass of the needle. He gripped the cushion as tears formed at the corners of his eyes.

"My apologies, Monsieur. I haven't any willow leaves for the pain."

Philippe voiced his discomfort in several grunts until Citrine finally snipped the end of the thread and placed a cold compact over the healing wound.

"His body should be burned," Philippe said as he blinked away his tears. His face was bone white, his lips tinged blue from sealing them together. "Burn it so that no one will ever find him."

"You'll find no argument from me, Monsieur."

Philippe took a deep breath before he closed his eyes and settled back. He hadn't the strength to continue the discussion, which Citrine was glad to see, as she had no desire to argue with him.

"Rest here for a while. Sophia is still sleeping and I sent Monsieur Belmont to stay in the house while she rests."

"I want to stay with her," Philippe replied weakly.

"Later, Monsieur. You look as though you could use more rest, and it would be foolish of you to move when she wouldn't even realize you were in the house. I expect that when she's awake she'll look for you."

Philippe made no attempt to argue. He looked away and sighed, his shoulders dropping as he relaxed.

Before Citrine rose, Philippe grabbed her hand and gently squeezed her fingers. "Thank you, Citrine," he said, keeping his voice low.

The pain in his eyes looked completely unrelated to his injuries.


	71. Soup

Paladin71

"Sit, please," Sophia said to Erik as she poured two creamy bowls of soup and placed them on a tray. Gritting her teeth, she prepared to grab the tray with one hand and balance the right side against her wrist, as her hand was too sore to grasp the handle.

She could feel Erik at her back, watching, waiting. It made her nervous to stand beneath his scrutinizing gaze, but she refused to ask for his help. She would do this, whether she succeeded or failed.

However, Erik seemed to have other plans. His silent presence suddenly became tangible as he stood to her side and swiftly reached for the tray. Unsure of what to do, she leaned first against the table and then into his chest.

"My apologies," she said under her breath, though she didn't move.

Erik didn't move either. His fingers were inches from the tray, and he breathed against the top of her head, which made her stomach flip over. "Where would you like to sit? At the table or by the fire?" he questioned.

His tone worsened her condition. Each word stopped her heart, sending an unexpected surge through her insides. His baritone voice coupled with his hot breaths left her disconcerted. All she wished to do was replay his words a thousand times in her mind, keeping them forever in her forethoughts.

"Sophia?" Erik pressed nearer, his chest against her back.

"It--it doesn't matter," she stuttered.

Sophia didn't dare face him. Her cheeks burned with a heat she wished would fade quickly only to have it appear again.

"Here," he said. One word along with his arms next to hers made her inhale sharply. He was suddenly too close.

Erik's hand swept up her arm to her shoulder, which he briefly squeezed before he stepped aside and allowed her to move away from the table. Head bowed, she turned away from him.

"The parlor?" he questioned.

Sophia saw him with the tray in hand and she turned to reach for it.

"Please, I'll—"

"You lead," he said, meeting her eye. "You lead, Sophia. I will follow."

All she could think of to say was, "I'm a terrible dancer." She turned to glance back at him. "Can't sing, can't dance. My only hope is to learn the piano."

"Perhaps you'd consider the violin."

Sophia shook her head as she walked into the dining room. "The piano is difficult enough."

"Difficult?" Erik set the tray down and pulled out Sophia's chair. He lingered a moment when she sat, his hands gripping the back of her seat.

"Yes, I find it quite challenging."

"The piano?" he asked incredulously.

Sophia pursed her lips and watched as he sat beside her. "You've clearly been born with enough musical talent for the two of us," she replied.

"I've had a lifetime to practice."

They discussed music while they ate, which seemed to animate Erik as the moments passed. He spoke with his hands, often placing his spoon down in order to gesture, which made Sophia smile. Philippe was often guilty of the same, although he reverted to wild motions when taxes or a newspaper article unnerved him.

For an hour they sat at the table, their bowls empty and bread consumed. Sophia wished she had eaten slower so that Erik would remain seated next to her, but her eyes grew heavy as the food settled in her stomach. In the back of her mind she heard Citrine and Philippe both telling her that she needed her rest. However, she didn't want to waste her day sleeping.

"When do you think Philippe will feel ready to return home?" Sophia asked as she helped Erik clear the table.

"Soon."

His vague reply did nothing to diminish her concern. She stared at Erik a moment with her lips pursed.

"Has he slept?"

"Yes."

"Did he eat?"

"Chicken liver in wine."

Sophia followed Erik into the kitchen. "He doesn't like chicken liver."

"No, he doesn't."

"I remember when he fell from a tree. He could not have been older than ten at the time, but he walked across a field on his own accord with a ripped section from his shirt binding his head. I walked behind him the entire way." She shook her head. "Mother was furious that I didn't help him."

Erik didn't turn to face her, but he paused at the sink and stared at the dirty dishes. "He cut his chin."

"Excuse me?"

He turned to face her, a bewildered expression on his face. "Mademoiselle Citrine is with him. He received a cut to the chin."

"H-how?"

"My foolishness."

"I don't understand."

Erik made no reply. He turned his head and stared at the kitchen door.

"Is it…bad?"

Before Erik answered, the front door opened and Sophia heard Citrine tell Philippe to be careful.

"Why must you stand directly behind me?" Philippe snapped.

"Because I want you to flatten me when you collapse."

Philippe scoffed.

"You are far too pleasant, Monsieur," Citrine replied sardonically.

Sophia glanced at Erik, who stared at the floor. "Phillippe is home," she said before she trotted down the hall to greet her brother. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Philippe with a bandage wrapped around his head.

"My God…"

Philippe waved off her concern and gave Citrine a menacing look. "She's made it look much worse than it is," he explained.

Citrine shrugged as Fidelio trotted up to greet her. "I needed to bandage you well so you wouldn't lick yourself raw, Monsieur Dupree," she replied with a devilish grin.

"Irritating girl," Philippe grumbled to himself before he collapsed into a chair.

Sophia rushed to his side. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Philippe," she scolded.

Philippe exhaled. "I'm fine."

-o-

"No, you're not," Sophia said as she sat on the arm of the chair. "What happened?"

Philippe exhaled. He rested his head on the high back of the chair and caught sight of his employer standing in the middle of the hall.

"An accident, Sophia," Philippe sighed. "And foolishness on my part. It's really little more than a cut…which Citrine bandaged the hell out of for dramatic effect."

Citrine snorted before she walked into the kitchen.

Sophia remained unconvinced. "Why won't you tell me?"

Philippe kept his gaze trained on Monsieur Belmont, who seemed to find his own feet of great interest. A peculiar gentleman, Philippe thought to himself, one who was apt to act in a time of chaos and disappear with the calm.

"Everything is fine," Philippe answered. "I was fortunate that Monsieur Belmont was near."

At his name, Belmont lifted his head and stared at Philippe, who met his gaze before he turned to his sister.

"Will you allow a guest in your home to wander the halls or will you seat him?" Philippe chided.

Sophia immediately stood, evidently embarrassed by her brother's words. She smoothed her skirt before she hurried to hallway and asked Erik if he'd care to join them. He hesitated a moment before he nodded and followed Sophia into the room. Once he was seated, he clasped his hands and averted his eyes.

Philippe turned his attention to the fire. He suspected that this man who masqueraded as a ghost had little experience in socializing with others. Fortunately, Sophia could talk enough for more than two people, he thought as he watched her from the corner of his eye. It wasn't in her nature to sit in silence, and by the expression on her face, she couldn't bear both her brother and their guest comfortably enjoying the fireplace.

Sophia sighed, her shoulders sagging. Philippe looked to Monsieur Belmont and noticed that he, too, watched Sophia from the corner of his eye. He sat rigid, but he didn't appear uncomfortable. It appeared as though he were accustomed to sitting up straight with his hands on either arm rest and his feet flat on the floor. Philippe, on the other hand, slouched, his legs spread wide and his head tilted.

Philippe cleared his throat. "Have you eaten?" he asked, looking from Monsieur Belmont to Sophia.

"Yes," came the answer from Belmont.

"I made soup and there was bread, but I don't think we have much butter left."

Monsieur Belmont seemed to take great interest in listening to Sophia answered. He turned his head to watch her, his hardened, hopeless expression softening. She noticed him staring and turned to smile before she gazed at the kitchen door.

"Citrine, do you need my help?" she asked as she started to stand.

"You sit and rest." Citrine walked in and served tea and cookies. She made Philippe tilt his chin up so that she could examine the stitches before she promised she'd heat him a bowl of soup.

Philippe turned to Sophia. "See to it that Citrine adds more onions to my soup."

She stared at him a moment, uncertain. "I didn't think you liked onions."

"Better than all the salt she's added lately," he replied as he stretched out his legs.

He waited until Sophia rose and walked into the kitchen before he spoke. Once his sister was gone, he noticed Monsieur Belmont's attention had returned to the fireplace.

"What else needs to be done at the smokehouse?" he asked quietly.

"For your part? Nothing."

Philippe's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Because the more opportunities one allows death the sooner death succeeds." He paused but didn't look at Philippe. "No one will find him."

The remorse in Belmont's voice caught Philippe by surprise. He studied his employer a moment before he sat up and inhaled. His face had started to throb each time he spoke, which made him pause far longer than he had intended.

"And then it will be over?"

Belmont made no reply.


	72. Honor

Paladin72

Philippe refused to allow his question to remain unanswered. He sent the girls to the stable in order to remove them from his home before he continued questioning Monsieur Belmont.

"What will you do with him? Burn his body? Leave him in the woods for the wolves to feast on?" Philippe mumbled in an attempt to keep his jaw still.

"The property is vast," Belmont mumbled.

Philippe fought the urge to roll his eyes, as he didn't consider his employer's words a worthwhile reply.

"If his body is abandoned it risks being dragged onto the road by wild animals," Belmont continued.

"Burning, then?"

They briefly exchanged glances, and the moment Philippe looked away he felt as though his employer had seen the desire for vengeance he still felt boiling deep inside of him. It was now difficult to see Erik Belmont in the same light Philippe had always envisioned the dreaded opera ghost. He'd imagined a skeletal figure with a skull's head and a hiss for a voice. He'd expected blood-covered hands that constantly grasped a noose. Philippe wasn't sure if he should feel disappointed, as his employer was none of these things. He was a quiet yet most ordinary man. Aside from the mask.

"The smoke may attract attention," Belmont said at last.

"Not if it comes from the overseer's house."

"Perhaps."

Philippe became increasingly agitated. "The house is crammed full of…junk," he said with a shrug. "Old furniture far beyond repair, paperwork that's at least twenty, thirty years old. We could start several fires around the area."

"And burn down the whole damned estate," Belmont replied under his breath. "Smoke draws attention."

"As does a rotting body in a smokehouse." He waited a moment for the estate owner to reply, and when Belmont remained silent, Philippe continued. "Are there other options?"

Belmont rose to his feet and exhaled. Philippe wanted to suggest dismemberment but the idea instantly sickened him, as he couldn't imagine butchering a human body. As it was, he'd never been able to watch a pig have its throat slit while others stood around and waited for the animal to cease its struggling. Turro, of course, was a different matter altogether, but no less tolerable a concept.

"We should deal with this matter immediately," Philippe said as he rose to his feet, prepared to thoroughly explore their options.

Belmont looked at him sharply as though he disapproved of Philippe's audacity yet did nothing to correct him. Instead, he turned to face the fire and cracked his knuckles.

"Your chin must cause you great pain."

Philippe's nostrils flared and heat rose up the back of his neck. "My chin," he said through his teeth, "in no way impedes my ability to deal with Turro's body."

Belmont turned away, which incensed Philippe even more. He'd spent the night recovering in bed and he would be damned if any man thought him weak—even if his head did pound so hard that he thought he would pass out.

"You will not insult my honor."

"Honor?"

"I have the competence to do this," Philippe growled to the back of Belmont's head.

"Do what?"

Philippe stalked forward and fought the urge to grab Erik by the arm and force a confrontation. "I must see this through until the end. I love Sophia."

Erik turned to face Philippe. His hardened expression softened, his lips forming the slightest smile. "As do I."

-o-

Sophia and Citrine walked into the stable as Gabe saddled a horse in preparation to deliver Philippe's letter bound for Paris. He tipped his hat to them before he turned back to the horse. He heard Citrine grab two empty buckets and turn them over.

When he glanced over his shoulder he found them both watching him.

"I beg your pardon?"

Citrine grinned. She sat with her chin resting in her hands. "Monsieur Dupree wanted to be rid of us, so we came here," she answered.

Gabe furrowed his brow. "Excuse me?"

She waved off his question. "We won't trouble you. Ignore us."

Gabe looked at Sophia and smiled. "Do you truly believe Citrine can be ignored?"

Sophia gave a coy smile and turned away, allowing Gabe to see the profile of her bruised face. He fished the letter from his pocket and waved it. "It looks as though Philippe wishes for your aunt to pay a visit soon, Mademoiselle."

His words garnered her attention and she sat up straighter. "Aunt Ann?" Gabe nodded and saw Sophia smile. For the first time that day she looked like herself. "That would be nice. I've missed her terribly."

-o-

Erik immediately turned away once he finished speaking and trained his gaze on the flames. He fully expected Philippe to instigate an argument or fistfight, which he'd learned were inherent to his butler's personality. When not so much as a breath left Philippe's body, however, Erik turned to face him once more.

Philippe cleared his throat. "I've assumed as much," he said at last. "The expression on her face, the way she reacts when you're in the same room. You make her feel…comfortable, I suppose."

Erik wanted to grunt in response but contained himself and remained respectfully silent. He didn't know what to say, as he never expected anyone to feel comforted by his presence. Three and a half decades of life spent as a monster had taught him differently.

They stood side by side for quite some time with Erik uncertain of what to say next and Philippe either too appalled to find his tongue or entirely unimpressed with the situation. As much as Erik wanted to ask Philippe if he approved, he couldn't bring himself to form the question. It wasn't yet time to address such matters.

"I believe the feelings are mutual," Philippe said at last. He half-smiled and crossed his arms over his chest. "However, this is a discussion for another time. The body must be moved before someone from his household appears, and since there is no way of knowing whether someone will search for him today or a month from now, I would like to put him in the past as much as possible."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Do you suspect he would have told his family he planned to pay Sophia a visit?"

Philippe gingerly touched the bandages around his neck. "Highly doubtful, Monsieur, as the only people in his household over the winter months are his servants."

Erik turned back to Philippe, curiosity piqued.

"His mother and father reside in Spain for the winter. They've traded horses with several Spaniards for many years, from what I understand. They leave him to tend the estate, usually with only two or three servants."

"Men or women?" Erik questioned.

Philippe remained quiet a moment. "Young women," he said at last. "Very young."

The revelation didn't surprise Erik. He exhaled and gave a curt nod.

"His parents would never question or contradict his decisions."

"Why not?"

"They fear him—or at least that's the impression I received whenever I was near his parents. His father was sick for a while, his mother a bit feeble. They allotted him much power."

Erik stared at Philippe briefly before he turned his attention back to the fire.

"My father gave me full control of the vineyards but I never saw him as being weak. He had no other choice, I suppose."

"Honor," Erik mumbled.

"I beg your pardon?"

Erik glanced at him again. "There is your honor." He turned away and walked toward the door. "Send the Mademoiselles to my home. I'll gather the horses." He turned when Philippe remained silent. "You know the way to the overseer's house."

"Yes."

"Then I'll ready your horse for you. Make haste."


	73. Laure

Paladin73

Gabe passed Turro's property as he returned from delivering Philippe's letter. There were no horses set out to graze, and as he approached the main gates he saw a young woman bundled in her cloak. She stood on the side of the road, her hands in the air.

"Monsieur!"

Gabe reined his horse and dismounted, immediately recognizing her as one of the girls who had worked the orchards over the summer, well before Monsieur Belmont had moved into the Manor. She was one of many limber children perfect for climbing trees. However, she was a wily little thing, always sly as a fox when it came to her pranks. She was like a little sister to Gabe.

"Laure."

Her expression changed once she recognized him. "Monsieur Gabe!" she exclaimed. She curtsied twice and clasped her hands. "You are well?"

He nodded, noticing how thin she appeared. Her face had changed, the usual pink in her cheeks nonexistent. "May I ask why you are here, Laure?"

"I am looking for someone."

Gabe nodded. "You should return inside. It's too cold for someone as small as you."

She gave an unladylike snort to his comment. "I am not small. I am a woman."

He attempted to refrain from chuckling at her words, as she could not have been older than eight or nine years old. "Where is your sister?"

Laure glanced behind her at the long drive leading to the Turro estate. "Sabine has been in bed for two days."

Gabe followed the young girl's gaze up the driveway. "You work for the Turro Family?" He glanced at Laure, who didn't return his gaze.

"For Monsieur Turro, yes."

"The father or the son?"

"I have never met the father. Only the son," she mumbled.

"What is the matter with Sabine?"

Laure exhaled. "She will not say. She is sick in the mornings often and does not start her duties until the afternoon."

"Have you called for a doctor?"

"She refuses."

Gabe looked around the road, knowing full well that the young girl had been searching for her employer. He started to excuse himself and return to the estate when Laure stepped forward.

"You have not seen Monsieur Turro, have you, Monsieur Gabe?"

Once again she didn't look at him when she spoke, which struck Gabe as odd. For as long as he had known her and her older sister, who had cared for all the younger children, they had always been a gregarious pair.

Gabe sighed, uncertain of what to tell her.

"I believe he left the estate last night. I thought he was in Sabine's room telling her a story,but she said she had not seen him."

"A story?"

"He tells us both many stories." She looked at Gabe and frowned. "He will return on his own accord. This isn't the first time he has left and not returned by morning."

"You'll freeze out here. It's warmer inside, Laure," Gabe replied.

She nodded.

"Perhaps I should return this evening to see if Sabine is feeling better?" he offered.

The girl smiled. "Does Monsieur Dupree work at the Manor still?"

"He does."

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to send him." With one last curtsy she trotted through the gates and up the drive. Gabe watched her in silence until he saw her reach the main house and disappear through the front door.

-o-

Gabe startled Philippe as he cantered toward the stable.

"Is my letter on its way to Paris?" he called out as loudly as he could with his neck still tightly bandaged.

"Laure," he said through his teeth.

Philippe furrowed his brow. "Pardon me?"

"Turro. He employs both Laure and Sabine." He jumped from the saddle and stormed toward Philippe, who backed away. He'd never seen Gabe angry before, and the sight of the horsemaster's son so livid was not one Philippe wished to see ever again.

"How do you know this?"

"I saw Laure."

Philippe vaguely remembered Laure but he did recall Sabine, whom he'd befriended the previous summer. The young woman had made certain that there was food for all of the children and that they retired for the night with clean hands and faces. He had no idea what had become of the pair once the season had come to an end, but he wished he had hired Sabine to work with Sophia and Citrine. Sabine was several months older than Sophia and, considering how annoyed he was with Citrine at the moment, a more suitable companion.

"Where did you see her?"

"Outside of the horse farm, near the road. She was searching for her employer."

Philippe stared at the ground. "Did you tell her--?"

Gabe grabbed Philippe by the shoulder. "I would tell her nothing of that…that bastard. She said he would come to them at night and tell them stories," he said, still speaking through his teeth. "Tell me, what business does a man have with a child Laure's age?"

"I know."

The look on Gabe's face told Philippe that his friend had every intention of continuing the conversation. "She's very young but she no longer has the look of a child, Philippe."

"We must move the body," Philippe explained, keeping his voice even. "Then we will pay them a visit."

"Sabine is ill."

Philippe met Gabe's eye. "Ill?"

"In the mornings."

Philippe didn't say another word on the subject. "We need two horses. I'll drag Turro's body before I put him onto one of our animals."

"Where will you discard him?"

"Near the overseer's home." Philippe ran his hand over his hair. "I'd rather burn him but I suppose it would draw too much attention. I believe he'll be buried in the vicinity but honestly, if Monsieur Belmont's offer still stands and I have control of the orchards, then I would rather have his ghost haunting somewhere else."

Gabe nodded. "I'll find a shovel and meet you on the other side of the orchards.

-o-

Erik met both Philippe and Gabe outside the smokehouse. Gabe was mounted on horseback and was prepared to leave but stopped when he saw his employer stride across the yard.

"Where are the Mademoiselles?" Erik questioned. He surveyed the horses, two of which were saddled and a third whose reins were tied to the larger horse's saddle.

"I told them to stay inside," Philippe said firmly. He held the two saddled horses by the reins and shifted his weight. "Monsieur, it seems we have little to fear of someone from his estate searching for him."

Gabe muttered under his breath and Erik glanced at him, noticing the twisted expression on the groomsman's face.

Erik reached for the reins of the nearest horse. "Explain."

Before Philippe spoke, Gabe heeled his horse and rode away. He left with a shovel in hand and the remaining two men staring at one another.

Philippe exhaled. "There were two girls who were employed here the summer before you arrived," he said, briefly explaining that Gabe had discovered the two had been hired by Turro. "The little one cannot be older than eight or nine."

Erik stared at Philippe and thought of Christine, whom he'd first met when she was a mere child in the opera house. His intentions, however, were not based on intimate feelings for her. He'd come to her by accident, not out of desire, and knew her only by her voice. With two dozen ballerinas on the stage he never knew what she looked like and he didn't much care while he sat in his private box. She was his student, an experiment of sorts. He taught her because she listened and he heard the potential in her voice, not because he found her sexually inviting.

It wasn't until she acquired a room of her own that he knew her face, and it was not until shortly before her childhood sweetheart had arrived at the opera house that he'd realized his feelings for her as a woman. Still, he was not proud of his actions.

This situation, however, hadn't a drop of innocence in it.

Philippe scratched his horse's muzzle. "In short, Monsieur, I believe Gabe would like to dig the hole himself and toss the first stone on the body."

Erik stared straight ahead and considered Philippe's words.

"Where is a suitable place to bury him?"

To that Philippe sighed. "Gabe has already selected a location." He paused and met Erik's eye. "It's about a half mile from the overseer's house. I think you will agree that it suits our…needs, if you will."

An unexpected shiver ran down Erik's back. He nodded to Philippe, who understood the wordless command and helped him move the body onto the pack horse.

Erik exhaled and stared at the dormant orchard briefly. His only thought was that he desired to return indoors and scrub his hands clean.

"Make haste," he said as he turned toward Philippe. "The sooner this is done the better."

With that he swung into the saddle and waited for Philippe to mount his gelding.


	74. The Overseer's House

I apologize if the story seemed slow over the last few chapters. I felt there was a lot which needed to be covered. The pace should quicken from this point on. Thanks for sticking with Belmont!

Paladin74

Gabe had already dug a shallow hole by the time Erik and Philippe joined him in the orchard.

"The overseer's house is down this hill. There is probably another shovel," Philippe said as he dismounted his horse and tied it next to Gabe's. The groomsman didn't lift his gaze or acknowledge either of them. He was far too concerned with digging a hole and ridding the world of Karl Turro's existence.

Erik was last to dismount. He sat with his toes pointed up in the stirrups and his gaze surveying their surroundings. The location felt peculiar though he didn't know why. It was as though he knew this place, which was impossible since he'd never traveled this far across the property.

"Monsieur?" Philippe prompted. He grabbed a second shovel. "Shall I retrieve rocks?"

"A pile of rocks makes for an easily distinguished grave. If there are shovels I imagine there is also an ax."

"The sooner we are finished the better for the girls."

Erik looked away. They both knew it no longer mattered what they said to Citrine and Sophia. Everyone aside from Rene Monteclaire was well aware of the death on the property and the only reason Monsieur Monteclaire didn't know was because he had not yet returned.

"Fell on his own knife," Gabe muttered. He dumped a pile of dirt into the snow and then thrust his shovel into the earth again. "He deserved a hell of a lot worse. By God, if I could resurrect the bastard I'd cut off his balls." He spit into the dirt and cursed under his breath.

Philippe nodded and set to working alongside Gabe, where they picked up a rhythm and continued in silence. Erik grabbed one corner of the blanket they had tightly wrapped around Turro's body and pulled it down from the horse. The thud it made upon impact with the ground made his stomach tighten and he wished there was a place far from his property where the body could be easily disposed of without raising anyone's suspicions.

Erik walked briskly down the hill to where the trees were leaning. Some appeared to have fallen during a storm, their trunks rotting, the process of death and decay stalled over the winter. Another steel trap matching the one that had ensnared Fidelio lay partially hidden by snow. He picked up a stick and triggered the trap before he continued, mentally reminding himself that once the snow completely melted and the grass started to grow he would take a walk through the orchard and find every damned trap.

Even though Philippe had told him where the overseer's house was located it still felt as though he'd accidentally stumbled upon it. Inhaling sharply he stood at the edge of the trees, stick still in hand, and stared at the quaint stone building.

He found himself unable to breathe as he stared at the structure. It was small, the moss no longer a verdant green, the ivy that crept over the outer walls and stretched over the windows dormant for winter. Yet still, even in its abandoned state, he recognized this place. His childhood home.

His hands began to tremble as he stepped forward, afraid of what he would discover. The main house where he now lived was erased from his mind but this…this would never leave.

Erik glanced back, grateful that the burial site was hidden from view by trees and distance. With the shovel and ax forgotten, he walked to the door and placed his hand on the doorknob, afraid to enter, but afraid to stay away.

-o-

There was nothing Citrine could do to convince Sophia to come away from the window. With her nose pressed to the glass, Sophia watched Philippe and Erik hoist Turro's corpse, hidden in blankets, onto the pack horse.

"You should rest."

Sophia ignored Citrine's suggestion until she felt her friend's hand on her shoulder.

"Sophia—"

"I'm not tired."

"I know, but still. You need to sleep and eat as much as possible. You will heal faster."

Once Philippe mounted his horse and Erik had joined him, she turned away from the window. "How did it happen?" she questioned.

"Excuse me?"

"Did they kill him?"

Citrine folded her hands. "You must ask your brother, Sophia."

It was hardly an answer but Sophia knew Citrine well enough to realize when she would receive answers and when her breath was better suited for speaking to the wall. With a sigh she returned to her chair. Fidelio, who had found a cozy place by the fire, made no attempt to greet her. He merely stared at her a moment before he sighed and closed his eyes again, with little more than the end of his tail thumping the ground.

"Would it upset you?" Citrine questioned suddenly.

"Pardon me?"

"Would it upset you if they killed him?"

"Never," she answered quickly. "I never want to see him again." She pursed her lips and realized that the question had little to do with Turro. "It doesn't make them murderers in my eyes," she replied softly.

Citrine placed her hands on Sophia's shoulders. "Mine either. Rest."

-o-

The overseer's house smelled musty and confined. Erik lingered on the threshold a moment as his gaze searched the darkened entrance. He longed for the scent of fresh baked breads or cinnamon heavy in the air, a reminder of the past. This place, which had only existed in the very back of his mind, was soft, gentle. A safe place, he thought as he closed the door, but one plagued with terror always looming on the horizon.

Wind howled through a distant window and drew Erik further into the cold house. He walked halfway down the hall and paused suddenly. With his hand stretched out he touched the wall and felt several marks, one nearly on top of the other.

_"You've grown so tall!"_

Her voice still echoed, still existed vaguely in his mind. He remembered her hand atop his head, the way she grasped his shoulder and told him to stand straighter. He ran his fingertips over the highest marker, which barely came to his hip. How proud he'd been each time she showed him he'd grown another quarter of an inch. She was always pleased with him, even when the man who lived in the Manor berated her, berated him.

_"He's merely a child."_

Erik found himself standing in a small, overcrowded office. Papers were scattered on the floor, which he assumed was from Philippe examining the old records. There had once been a bed in the corner, a child's bed,and matching dresser. He remembered the way the light came through the curtains, how he had lay at night and watched the moon travel through the night sky.

_"Send him away."_

_"Never."_

_"For God's sake. You're my wife. We will have another son."_

_"No!"_

_"Why?"_

They argued down the hall where they thought he couldn't hear them. With his ear pressed to the door he waited, held his breath, prayed through the night that she wouldn't send him away. He knew he was different, saw it in the mirror, in his watery reflection when he sat with his feet in the nearby stream.

_"Why must you keep…him?"_

_"He's my son."_

_"And yours alone. I will never claim him, Angelina. You know this. It's a foolish endeavor, one which keeps us from being content. Is that what you want?"_

_"I have what I need."_

Erik stayed only a moment longer, his mood turned sullen. He heard Philippe shouting in the distance and quickly gathered his wits. With one last look, he wondered what had become of the kind, loving woman with the delicate features. His mother. Angelina Belmont. He hadn't seen her since the fair passed through Paris. It was the day his nightmarish life had begun.


	75. Two Graves

Paladin75

"Where has he gone?" Philippe grumbled to himself before he began shouting for Monsieur Belmont.

"He'll return in a moment." Gabe staked his shovel into the dirt and wiped his forehead. He tied a cloth over his face and pulled on his gloves. "I'll open the bag of lime."

Philippe blinked several times until his vision came back into focus. He'd felt his stomach twisting midway through their task of digging a hole large enough for Turro's body, and now that they were done he knew his queasiness was due to his injury and not the body wrapped in a blanket.

"How many traps are there, do you think?" Philippe questioned. He watched Gabe split open the bag of lime before he turned and donned a handkerchief over his mouth and nose and a pair of leather gloves stiff from the cold.

"Hell if I know."

Philippe stared at the younger man a moment as he placed lime in the bottom of the shallow hole. He'd never seen Gabe perturbed and the change in demeanor left him wary.

"I'll ride with you to see Laure and Sabine. Sophia and Citrine should have no trouble here, wouldn't you say?"

Gabe made no reply. He grabbed Turro's feet, still hidden by the blanket, and allowed the body to fall into the grave.

"Did you hear me?"

"I heard you."

Philippe stared at him a moment before he exhaled hard. "I apologize, Monsieur, I hadn't realized you and Sabine—"

"Sabine and I what?"

"Nothing…" For once Philippe backed down and watched Gabe cover the body with lime. He'd always thought Gabe was fond of Sabine, but he never knew for certain—especially once Citrine was employed. Now was not the time to argue.

"Sophia is fortunate," Gabe said at last. "She has not suffered a fate worse than death."

"You wish to make me feel guilty?"

Gabe shook his head. "I would never wish ill on your sister."

"I didn't say—"

"May we finish this, Monsieur Dupree?"

Belmont walked into sight and their conversation ended.

"No ax?" Philippe questioned.

Belmont, who appeared more sullen than usual, shook his head.

"Did you find the overseer's house?"

He offered no answer or eye contact as he grabbed Philippe's shovel and tossed dirt into the shallow hole. Perplexed, Philippe stood and stared a moment before he was nearly hit in the stomach by the end of Belmont's shovel. He took his spot by a nearby tree and watched, feeling inadequate and unneeded.

No one said another word until the task was done and their horses had been returned to the stable.

"I'll feed and water them, then I intend to pay a visit to Sabine and Laure," Gabe said as he took all four horses.

Philippe nodded uncomfortably, feeling his employer staring hard at him. Once Gabe was out of sight, Philippe cleared his throat and turned toward the estate owner. "If you wouldn't mind, Monsieur, I shall accompany Gabe."

Belmont nodded, though his expression told Philippe that he had much on his mind.

"Well, then, sir, I shall inform Citrine that two less plates are needed for supper."

For the first time since they'd returned from the other end of the property, his employer met his eye. "The overseer's house."

Philippe nodded, confused as to whether it was a statement or a question.

"Monsieur?"

"Where is the deed for its sale?"

Philippe's eyes narrowed. "My apologies, sir, but I'm not certain. Do you wish to sell a portion of the property?"

Belmont looked away and shook his head. "I want to see the original owner's name."

Philippe gave a humorless chuckle. "If memory serves me correctly my aunt is in possession of all important documents. I believe she intended to send them to you soon, if she hasn't already done so. Perhaps they've been stashed in a drawer. Sophia may know. In my experience women usually know where everything within a house is located, even when it's not their own."

"Ann," Belmont mumbled. And then he walked away.

-o-

The chilly draft gave Erik away as he returned home and quietly shut the front door. Sophia, who had taken over the duty of mixing frosting for Citrine's cake, swirled her finger along the edge of the bowl and licked it clean before she peeked around the corner.

Once she had wakened from her afternoon nap, Sophia found herself busy with household chores. Citrine set her flying through the Manor with sheets and clean towels to fold and she was glad for the distraction. In fact, she couldn't think of a more welcomed one.

"Citrine made—" With a squeak she jumped back, startled when she found Erik standing directly before her. "You're like a mouse on stilts."

"Pardon me?"

"Quiet, with long legs." She smiled. "It's not exactly funny if I need to explain it to you."

"I suppose not," he muttered. He appeared distracted.

She held her spoon out to him. "Frosting? It's a little too sweet for my taste but it's good."

"No. Thank you." He briefly looked away and she followed his gaze toward the stairs. "Your brother said you may know where the deed to the property is kept."

Sophia raised an eyebrow. "The deed?"

Erik nodded, the left side of his face taut. "I must see it. I must see the name."

"It sounds rather urgent."

He met her eye and searched her gaze. When she looked at him she wished he would remove his mask and allow her a more complete view of his expression.

"Were you employed here when your aunt purchased the property?"

"I believe it was several days after the purchase was finalized. It was in August when Philippe and I came to live here. The seventeenth if I remember correctly."

"Was it abandoned?"

"Why don't we sit a moment and wait for Citrine to return?"

It came as a surprise when Erik nodded and followed her into the parlor. She smoothed her skirts and took a deep breath before she answered his question.

"As far as I know, the property was inhabited by an estate guardian. I'm not quite certain who it was, but this house contained furniture. I had a terrible time removing soot from the hearth. And there were cobwebs above the windows." She paused when she saw the disinterest in his expression. She cleared her throat. "I haven't the slightest idea who lived here. But it must have been a woman."

"Why?" he blurted out.

Sophia shrugged. "There was quite a bit of costume jewelry in one of the rooms. I remember Philippe sent it off with some beautiful armchairs. They must have been heirlooms."

Her words held his full attention though she couldn't tell if it pleased him or made him more anxious.

"Where were these items sent?"

"It wasn't my place to know. I apologize. Perhaps the records are here somewhere. I wouldn't know where to begin to look for them and I doubt Philippe would remember. We were quite busy with preparations. My aunt thought you would travel here at the beginning of October but then she sent word that she didn't know when you would arrive and…well… I'm afraid I haven't been much help."

He shook his head and lowered his gaze. Seeing his troubled expression, Sophia leaned toward him and placed her hand on the arm of his chair and saw him stare at her fingers.

"May I ask whose name you are searching for?"

He stiffened in his seat and met her eye. "My father's."

"Claude Belmont?"

Erik's pale green eyes widened. "How did you know?"

"There's a grave marker behind the Manor. It bears his name."

His lips parted and he blanched before he tore his gaze away. Sophia placed her hand on her chest.

"Did you…did you not know?" she asked quietly.

Erik made no reply. He started to rise from his seat and then paused and lowered his head. His hands began to tremble and Sophia couldn't resist the urge to place her hand over his.

"And his wife?"

Sophia awkwardly glanced around the room before her gaze settled on the arm of the chair. Erik's hand felt cold, almost lifeless. She was certain he hadn't known.

"There was no mention of a wife."

He exhaled and closed his eyes, his hand relaxing beneath hers.


	76. An Only Child

NDBRs: Major changes to this chapter.

Paladin76

No mention of a wife, no grave to mark her passing. Erik sighed in relief, a face he'd not seen in many long years still existed in his mind. She may have been alive still. Despite the past, he considered it good news.

He sat across from Sophia, completely paralyzed by the notion. He hadn't thought of her—really thought of her—in years, and during his time spent in the opera house he'd assumed she had died. Why, how, when…none of it mattered.

"I apologize."

He glanced up at Sophia. "Pardon me?"

"It seems I've upset you."

He shook his head, feeling her hand pull away. She stopped when he sat forward, and she stared at him. "No, you have not."

"Are you certain?"

He removed his hand from beneath hers and gently rested his fingers on her knuckles. "It's unexpected."

She nodded, lips pursed. "I thought you'd returned home to assume care for the property following Monsieur Belmont's death." Her voice stayed low, her eyes averted. "If I had known…I feel quite callous."

He stayed silent a moment, contemplating whether he should keep his thoughts private. He loathed never having an outlet for thoughts and ideas, for conversations which came easily to others. He looked to Sophia and couldn't imagine not sitting beside her. He knew she would listen to him, knew her hand would remain beneath his. He couldn't deny himself the interaction.

"I haven't seen this house since I was eight, perhaps nine years of age."

"You've been gone a long time, then, haven't you?"

"Long indeed," he mumbled. And not by choice. A ragged breath left his lungs as he thought of his last days on the property.

He'd never lived in the Manor. He'd grown up across the woods in the overseer's house with his mother, seldom seeing the main house on the property. He still remembered his mother warning him never to cross through the woods. Naturally, her words had tempted him. He frequently scurried to the very edge of the trees and surveyed the beautiful house with its solarium and ivy-covered façade.

While he lay in the grass with his chin resting on his knuckles, he watched men working outside, heard the horses whickering and a dog barking in the distance. He made a whistle out of a blade of grass placed between his thumbs, just like his mother had shown him. Once in a while the workers would stop and stare at the hillside, but the shade from the trees kept him hidden and he was free to watch in secret.

The house was a tantalizing mystery, a challenge he couldn't resist. He longed to lumber down the hillside, to examine each detail up close. With each passing year he had grown bored with his home, with his quaint life. He needed other ways in which to entertain himself.

"You mustn't, Erik," his mother had spoken sternly. She was rarely stern with him, always gentle and calming, as though she wanted nothing more than to keep him content. "This is your home."

Yet he tired of the cramped house. He wanted more. Bigger, better…What was forbidden he desired.

Despite all of his adventures he'd only been caught once, three days before he was removed permanently from his home. He had never forgotten it, would not for as long as he lived. He'd always brought hell upon himself. She'd had good reason to abandon him, to give him to the gypsies. Such a delicate angel deserved better than to manage the devil's child.

"It's a beautiful home, Monsieur. I've always thought so, since I was a little girl."

He felt no desire to respond, his mood somber. "You've been here before?"

She shook her head. "I remember seeing it when I traveled with my father and brother." She smiled and sat back, apparently recalling pleasant memories. She didn't look as tired as she had when he first returned home, and if not for the bruise on her cheek it would have been much easier to forget the way in which the morning and afternoon had been spent.

"My father always allowed me to hold the reins as we drove the wagon and my brother rode alongside us," she continued. "Philippe was different as a child than he is now." She glanced at him and chuckled. "He had this little pony, which looked simply charming until you walked up to it."

"It bit?"

"Far worse. The beast was half-crazed. It would toss its head and make a fuss for anyone who came near him…other than Philippe. I love my brother, but he and the pony were quite a pair. I imagine the look on the faces of workers when they saw the two of them prancing up the drive."

"The drive?"

"I believe my father bought cherries for cider from your father. There was always a sign near the driveway—it's gone now—but when my brother returned with a bushel, he'd sneak me one or two. Well, his way of sneaking them to me was to toss them at my head. Perhaps he hasn't changed so much after all."

"He's protective."

"He's overbearing, suffocating, and a constant worrier. I believe I've covered his good traits." She grunted and turned her hand over so their palms touched. "He's always been good to me. I shouldn't complain."

Erik nodded.

"This estate must have been a little boy's dream come true," she mused. Her smile widened and she blinked slowly. He almost hoped she would fall asleep in her chair so he could watch her. "I'd wager you knew every tree in the orchard. Climbed them all."

He looked away and gave a closed-lip smile. "Not once."

"No? Afraid of heights?"

"Lack of coordination."

"I had skinned knees as proof of my boundless grace." She laughed to herself. "And then once I obtained grace…well…" She shrugged and gave his hand a squeeze, her eyes meeting his. He studied her right eye, wondering if the ailment threatening to steal her vision had worsened.

He saw her studying his mask, which began to make him feel uncomfortable.

"Has the," she tapped her cheek beneath her right eye, "…the mark healed?"

"No." His grip on her hand loosened and he turned away from her, bringing his free hand to his face. The mask rubbed against his face and reopened a small but painful wound. He hadn't noticed the discomfort until she mentioned it.

Sophia cleared her throat and attempted to change the subject. "You were an only child, weren't you? I believe you've mentioned it before."

He set his mask on the arm of the chair and slowly turned to face her. "There were no other children present."

She nodded. "Are you more comfortable now?"

He considered her words a moment. "There is less pain."

With a sigh, Sophia rested her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. Their hands were still connected, fingers still touching.

"I'm glad you returned here, to your home," she murmured.

She would have fallen asleep had Citrine and Fidelio not walked in moments later. While she closed the door behind her, Erik swiftly replaced his mask and sat up straight.

"Ah, that's right, Monsieur. Remember your good posture," Citrine teased. Fidelio ran past her and straight into the kitchen where he lapped up water. "You sit and relax while I make supper."

Sophia stood and yawned. "I must help Citrine in the kitchen. Would you like tea?"

He shook his head. "I must write a letter."

He returned to his room, which he now saw in a different light, and wondered if his father had slept in the bed he now occupied.

-o-

Turro's property appeared abandoned as Gabe and Philippe rode up the drive. They exchanged looks but neither of them spoke as they tied their horses to the fence, expecting only a brief stay.

Before Gabe reached the door, however, it flung open and Laure appeared.

"Monsieur Gabe!" She flung her arms around his waist and hugged him tightly while Philippe remained at a distance. "Shouldn't you be eating supper?"

He bent down so he stood eye-level with her and smiled. "Shouldn't you? Or would you prefer standing three feet tall for the rest of your life?"

She looked past him and stared at Philippe, who patiently waited to see if Sabine would appear.

"Have you happened to see Monsieur Turro?" she questioned.

Philippe looked away and Gabe stammered for an answer. "I'm afraid not, Mademoiselle."

"Perhaps he has gone to visit his mother and father."

"Since it's getting dark, Monsieur Dupree and I wanted to see how you and your sister fare. Would you care for company?"

"Gentlemen, please come inside."

Laure turned and sauntered in, a miniature lady in the body of a child. Head bowed, Philippe followed Gabe through the doorway and into Turro's home, wondering if a ghost bound for hell would loom for the night.


	77. The Letter

Paladin77

Laure escorted Gabe and Philippe through the house and asked them to wait in the parlor while she informed her sister that they had guests.

Moments later they heard the girls speaking.

"Have they seen Monsieur Turro?"

Gabe glanced at Philippe, who kept his eyes trained on the door Laure had disappeared through.

"No, not at all."

Sabine sighed. "Very well. Have you made supper?"

"You make supper! I can't carry the cooking pot." The girl sounded close to tears.

"Fine, fine. Ask them into the dining room. I'll see what's left." She sounded exhausted, as though a simple conversation had sapped her energy.

"They're our guests!" Laure whispered loudly.

"I know, and I'll feed them whatever I have remaining. Please, Laure, seat them at once."

Laure returned a moment later and gracefully motioned for them to follow her.

"It's much too cold in the house for you two," Gabe said as they followed. Their voices echoed off the high ceilings. "Is there no one else here?"

She shook her head. "Monsieur Turro was gone for two weeks and then, when he returned, everyone had left."

"Everyone?" Gabe questioned. He glanced at a bronze statue of a horse, and his hands balled into fists.

"When there is no money as promised, there are no workers either." She twirled the end of her braid around her finger.

"Why are you here, then?"

She didn't answer, and again Gabe looked to Philippe, who finally spoke.

"Who has cared for the horses?"

"Sabine did once or twice."

As the primary equine caretaker for Belmont Manor, Gabe felt his heart plummet. Turro owned twice as many horses—possibly three times as many. Regardless of how he felt toward Turro, he didn't want to walk into the stables and find two dozen emaciated or dead horses.

Ever since he was a child he'd preferred the company of horses to people. His father, who appreciated their uses, still saw them as animals and took care of them, but he was more inclined to whistle and pass the time rather than speak to the beasts while he brushed and washed them.

"How long has it been?" Gabe asked, horrified by the idea.

The girl counted on her fingers. "Four days."

Immediately Gabe paused, imagining the sight he'd find in the stables. "No food or water?"

She shook her head.

With a nod, he started to turn toward the front of the house. "I'll see to them, if you wish?"

"Gabe," Philippe said. He shook his head. "You've been invited to supper, not sent to work."

A door they approached slid open and Sabine appeared, her complexion pale, her eyes heavy and ringed with dark circles. Her hair, though tied back, appeared unwashed.

"He won't sit still until he's seen them for himself," she said.

Gabe smiled back at her. "You remember me well."

She gave a humorless chuckle and walked toward him. "You're impossible to forget."

Philippe cleared his throat once Gabe kissed Sabine on the cheeks and they both turned to stare at him.

"How are you, Monsieur Dupree?" she questioned. She seemed to notice the wound to his head, which was partially hidden by his hair. "My God, what has happened?"

"Nothing." He shook his head. "I'm fine."

"You should sit."

She placed her hand on his shoulder and leaned in, kissing him gently. Gabe looked away as they exchanged pleasantries and found Laure swaying back and forth—the perfect example of a child who simply couldn't stand still.

"If you'll excuse me, I'll see to supper," Sabine said at last.

"Don't trouble yourself for our sake," Gabe warned.

"Nonsense."

"Then tie an apron around his waist and send him to work in the kitchen," Gabe said with a grin.

Philippe didn't appear amused by the suggestion. "As Citrine would do to you?" he snapped.

Gabe chuckled at Philippe's comment. "Precisely."

"Who is Citrine?" Laure piped up.

Philippe stared hard at Gabe, his jaw twitching.

"She's a woman who works for Monsieur Belmont," he answered elusively.

Sabine began to laugh. She crossed her arms and shook her head. "Ah, merely an employee of the household?"

Gabe clasped his hands. "I'll tell no more. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll return in a moment."

-o-

Erik tossed the third draft of his letter into the rubbish bin and sat back in his chair. With a sigh, he stared at the next blank piece of paper. Everything he wanted to say remained firmly lodged in his thoughts, and the longer he stared at the empty page the worse it seemed.

His dinner, which he'd only picked at, had gone cold. It didn't matter. After his visit to the overseer's house, food didn't interest him.

He tapped his foot on the ground and then pushed away from the desk. Perhaps movement would loosen his thoughts and place the words onto his letter. All he wanted was answers regarding the Manor. Straightforward was the best approach, though after all Madame Giry had done for him—which he knew she hadn't needed to do—he couldn't send her a mere question.

But for so many years their relationship had been cold and formal. Once she introduced him to the opera house he'd vanished into the depths, found an entire world he needed to explore. The times when she was alone and able to speak were rare—so rare that he forgot she existed, forgot anyone existed. He spent months rearranging old props, constructing a wardrobe, and making a forgotten, unused basement his own. Over time, his playground became a bachelor's domain. Ann married, had a daughter, and disappeared from his life for several years.

Then she returned with Christine.

"Erik?"

Sophia's voice and a light tap on the door stopped him in the middle of his pacing. He placed his pen—which he hadn't realized he'd carried—onto his desk and opened the door.

"Do you need anything else for the night?" she questioned.

"Are you returning home?"

"Not yet. Citrine has cleaned the kitchen and wanted to know if you needed anything before she's gone."

"She's free to leave."

"Very well." He stepped aside and she glanced at his desk, which was piled with paperwork. "You appear busy."

He shook his head quickly. "No."

She chuckled at his swift answer and looked around the room. "How long have you known Aunt Ann?"

Erik crossed his arms and looked away. "I first met her long ago."

Sophia nodded. "You fell out of contact?"

With nothing to say, he nodded and wondered what Madame had said either directly to Philippe or indirectly to Sophia regarding his life.

"She'll be very happy to see you soon then, I'm certain." She smiled and placed her hand on his folded arms. Standing on the tips of her toes, she unexpectedly pecked him gently on the cheek.

He moved at the last moment, however, and when he turned his face she kissed him on the lips. A look of astonishment passed through her gaze, which was swiftly followed by a shy smile.

"I'll leave you to your letter." She cleared her throat and fixed her hair. "If you need anything, I shall be downstairs cleaning the parlor."

He stared at her, speechless, and finally forced a nod.

"I haven't yet played for you," he blurted out. He pursed his lips briefly, tasting her. The letter was now last on his mind. Indeed, it wasn't on his mind in the least.

Sophia's smile widened. "You remembered."


	78. Mutual Decision

NDBRs will notice some changes. The rest of you will kill me for leaving you on a cliff!

Paladin78

While Erik cleared his desk, Sophia skittered down the steps and stopped in front of an oval mirror hung on the wall. Taking a deep breath, she fanned her cheeks, which had burned since she had stood on the tips of her toes and boldly kissed his cheek.

"Goodness," she whispered to her reflection. She straightened her hair, checked her teeth, and smiled at herself. Her heart beat a little faster and her hands trembled at the thought of his expression when she kissed him. What she wouldn't have given to see her own face in that moment.

She couldn't help but release a squeal of excitement. While he was busy in his room, she'd spent an hour in the solarium, which had become the temporary home to many boxes and trunks from the previous owner. With a handkerchief over her mouth and nose, she'd lifted the first lid and found a tiny jewelry box with a broken lock. The velvet interior was musty and stained, but inside was a beautiful brooch, which Sophia couldn't bear to return to its solitude.

Erik's bedroom door opened and Sophia flew into the parlor where she immediately took her seat in one of the overstuffed chairs. She heard him either humming or muttering under his breath as he walked downstairs. His shoes slid across the floor as he stopped, most likely before the mirror as she had done only moments ago.

"Good evening," he said under his breath as he rolled his sleeves up.

She felt herself blush again. "Good evening."

He watched her from the corner of his eye as he shoveled the sheet music atop the piano into a folder. The mere sight of him made her breath catch in her throat, which she didn't understand. He wasn't a stranger to her. He was Erik, and she had kissed him. Her original rationale presumed it should have made the evening easier. It hadn't. She couldn't look him in the eye without feeling butterflies in her stomach. It seemed like a lifetime since she had felt tiny wings beat against her insides. Perhaps a lifetime had passed, she thought wryly. She hadn't a choice but to start over.

"Would you like to learn this composition?" he asked without looking directly at her.

"Oh." She rose to her feet. "Yes."

"Are you certain?" he asked with a crooked smile.

"Would you play it for me first?"

He grunted. "Of course."

Her hands linked behind her back. "I do believe those are my famous last words, aren't they? I suppose it wouldn't hurt if I sat closer."

"You will be taking piano lessons for the remainder of your life," he commented as he watched her take her seat on the bench.

She nervously laughed and fixed her hair again, uncertain of what to do with her hands but suspecting it was best to keep herself busy. That way, she reasoned, he wouldn't notice how she trembled.

Inhaling, he sat beside her and cracked his knuckles. "Shall we begin?"

From the very first note she closed her eyes and smiled, envisioning the manor in late spring when the orchards were in bloom. The higher notes reminded her of the rain, of tiny, cool drops on the tulips which lined their house. The tempo increased and she thought of laughter—a woman's laughter. A giggle escaped her, the butterflies beat faster.

She nearly jumped from her seat as the mood changed, the music low, almost dark. The tempo slowed, each key hit hard, every note like a tremor through the room.

He paused. Sophia swallowed, held her breath, hoped for rain on the garden, the sound of laughter. Her heart ached as the sound reverberated through the room, lingered between them.

And then he continued, slowly building, each note climbing from despair. Not quite laughter, not quite rain, but it brought about memories of days that couldn't decide if they were winter or spring. Cold, cloudy…but beautiful days, with buds waiting to break open, spill out their colors.

Her hands gripped the piano bench and she melted once the song ended. She felt heat along her neck and cheeks but made no attempt to hide her reaction. There was no need. Through each note it felt as though he'd already explored her from the inside, knew each feeling, each fear, each doubt.

"Sophia?"

Her eyes opened, the world before her blurry. She blinked swiftly, felt the tracks of tears down her cheeks.

Erik had turned away, set his hands on his thighs. "I've upset you."

"No, not at all." With a blissful sigh she rested her head on his shoulder. "I've heard music, but I've never felt it."

His arm snaked around her, held her close. She felt him breathe a sigh of relief against the side of her head.

"You enjoyed it?"

Immediately she lifted her head and nodded. "I did. I'm certain the piano cringes when it knows my fingers are about to touch the keys." With a nervous smile she pushed a strand of hair behind her ears. "I shouldn't be allowed—"

"You would do fine."

He searched her face, his lips parted as though he wished to tell her something but decided against it. His gaze settled on her lips, his hand gently squeezing her, drawing her closer.

She reached for his cheek, placed the palm of her hand against his mask. "I…" she whispered.

It surprised her when he didn't pull away, even when she slipped her fingernail beneath his mask.

"Sophia," he murmured. His eyelids appeared heavier as he touched her chin with his finger. He pulled back just slightly and turned his head to the side. "Wait. Please."

Her hand remained suspended, her fingers inches away from his face. She watched his shoulders bunch and then relax. He took a deep breath and faced her again. Eyes lowered, he pressed her palm against the mask.

"If you don't…"

She kissed him gently before he finished speaking, and when she pulled back he leaned forward, his hand firm against the small of her back.

"My father and mother made my decisions, and when they were gone it was Philippe who decided when I retired for the night and what I ate for breakfast. Turro," she continued. She no longer thought of him as a given name and a surname. He no longer deserved a title in her eyes. "He forced his decision upon me, but no more. This is my decision."

"Decision?"

"I want to kiss you," she said. She couldn't imagine how red her face had turned, but she committed herself to speaking what was on her mind. They had been close before Karl Turro had shown his face at Belmont Manor, they had known each other long enough to be honest. Drunk on the feel of his lips, on the persistence of his hand on her back, she smiled and looked him in the eye. "I don't want to kiss a mask. I only want you. This is my decision…as long as it's yours as well."


	79. The Piano Bench

Paladin79

The stench was almost more than Gabe could bear. With a handkerchief over his mouth and nose, he stumbled into the building and swatted at the flies.

Horses snorted toward the end of the stable, which signaled that at least some of them were still alive. One by one he checked the stalls, finding the first six empty. The seventh revealed an emaciated mare. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and her ears perked up.

Disheartened, he walked to the next stall where there was another mare, this one thin but in better condition than the first. She responded to his coaxing and curiously sniffed his hand.

"Good," he mumbled. "Better with food, eh?"

He hefted two buckets and brought them to the pump. Once he had the first two horses watered he grabbed a shovel and cleaned the stall floors before offering them food. Salt would have to wait until he could find the blocks. Most of the tack and saddles were missing, which led him to believe the groomsmen had stolen whatever they could sell, including some of the horses.

With two of the horses fed and watered, his hopes of finding all the animals alive were dashed the moment he found a black filly.

Laid out on her side, she made no reaction when he knelt beside her and ran his hand down her neck. Sores covered her belly, each one buzzing with flies. More dead than alive, he knew there was nothing he could do save put her out of her misery.

Only two more horses were still in the stable, and one of the two would need to be put down. The horse, which bore whip marks across its back and rear, was foundered and making a vain attempt to alleviate pressure on its front feet by leaning on its hind legs. Each time the animal moved, its front hooves bled and he whinnied, the pain undoubtedly magnified by waste. The hooves were so decayed that the animal practically stood on bone, which meant there was absolutely no chance of recovery. Poor nutrition and overwork were most likely to blame.

The animal's condition angered him as he knew nothing was more painful for a horse. He'd never seen an animal in such terrible condition, at least not in a stable he worked. No matter if his father viewed them as beasts, no one left the stable until the horses were fed, watered, cleaned, and brushed. If anything, Rene Monteclair was particular about the treatment and health of his stock.

The only consolation Gabe found was a half-empty jar of sugar cubes, which he fed to the miserable gelding. He couldn't bear to look the horse in the eye. He felt as though the beautiful gray already knew his fate.

Once the three surviving horses were moved into clean stalls, Gabe took a deep breath and gathered his wits. He returned to the tack room and found a wooden box of ammunition on a shelf, which did him little good without a firearm. There were a few knives among the farrier's tools, but he didn't want the horses to suffer any more than necessary, and allowing them to bleed out—especially while lying on their sides, would take longer than necessary. With other horses in the stable he wanted to avoid the smell of blood in the air.

At last he found a long gun buried under saddle blankets. The former employees must have overlooked the weapon as he couldn't understand why the Chassepot remained in the stable.

He'd only seen the rifle once, when two veterans from Mentana had passed through looking for employment two years ago. They'd stayed at the Manor for a week and told stories about Garibaldi when one of the carriage horses spooked and ran across the open yard. Its leg had caught in a rabbit hole and snapped, bringing the animal to the ground.

Gabe opened the bolt and was surprised to find it empty. His hands had started to tremble as he chambered the round. Despite its sore feet, the horse had stepped forward to search the trough for more sugar. In its desperation, it licked the sides and snorted until it found the last cube.

Long gun loaded, he waited until the gelding had finished its treat.

"You deserved better," he said under his breath.

-o-

Her face was still quite bruised but undeniably beautiful. With one hand over hers, Erik looked into Sophia's eyes and slowly nodded.

She wanted him, not a mask.

He wanted to remind himself that she'd seen his face already, but the words refused to connect in his mind. Images stretched through his thoughts, distorted with time.

Beaten, forced to reveal himself. Mocked by crowds. The gasps still echoed in his mind, how frightened, how alone he'd felt. How ashamed he'd been, how angry he still was after all these years.

Comfortable, accepted at last, then betrayed. Twice. He recalled Christine's gentle touch and the way she'd removed his mask the morning after he'd taken her from her room. Melding with his thoughts was that night on stage, when he thought he'd finally convinced her to love him. But he couldn't convince her, and another crowd shrieked in horror. He hadn't felt shame this time, only anger—and the need for revenge. She'd pacified him with her gentleness and mercy, then left him staggering…and alone.

"I've had many decisions made on my behalf and I've also dictated them to others," he said under his breath.

She exhaled. "I'm making you uncomfortable."

"No."

Her eyes widened. "Then I'm making myself uncomfortable because I can't seem to keep myself from...rambling."

Their eyes locked, understanding mutual. For a brief moment he considered kissing her again, but she looked away and coyly smiled. Her cheeks reddened again and she blew air past her lips.

"We should, um, let the fire die. It's quite warm in here, don't you think? Or am I talking too much again?"

"I don't think you talk too much."

"I talk enough for both of us."

He swallowed and released her hand, bracing himself. She did something to him each time she looked him in the eye or spoke to him. It was as though she saw through him, discovering pieces of himself he thought had died. No one had ever made him nervous like this, which he considered almost enjoyable. Normally his anxiety swiftly led to anger. But with Sophia, it led to intrigue.

"Sophia, your decision," he said, meeting her eye, "is mine as well."

Turning away, he brought his hand to his face and removed the mask.

-o-

Neither of them spoke as Erik held his mask several inches from his face. He stared at it a moment, his expression unreadable.

Sophia held her breath as she waited for him to turn toward her. She wondered if she had made an unreasonable request, if perhaps it was too soon. Her lips parted and she nervously tucked her hair behind her ear.

"I—" She lowered her hand and accidentally struck her fingers on the piano, which made her jump out of her seat.

Startled, Erik turned toward her and then quickly looked away.

"I think the piano would like to be played again," she said, hoping to God her laugh disguised her mortification.

"Excuse me?"

"It…oh…would you play the song again? I think I would like to hear it one more time. If, of course, you wouldn't mind playing. Unless you're very tired." She purposely folded her hands and kept them in her lap, thinking it was best if she didn't move. If only she could control her tongue.

"A request," he said under his breath. He searched for a moment before he finally set his mask on his knee. "No composer denies a request."

She felt herself blush as she watched him flex his hands.

"You're just like Philippe," she commented. "Your knuckles crack constantly."

He nodded. "It's bad for the joints. When you practice, you should never crack your knuckles."

Her brow furrowed. "But…you did earlier."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did. Before you played for me."

"It wasn't intentional."

Her mouth dropped open. She knew what she'd seen and he wasn't about to tell her she was mistaken. "Perhaps it's a bad habit you're not aware of?"

Before she finished speaking, he twisted his thumb and it cracked. "Perhaps."

She smiled triumphantly and sat up straighter. "My song, then, Monsieur."

He looked at her from the corner of his eye, his lips fighting to contain a smile. "If you are correct then perhaps you should be the one playing."

She giggled, which caught her by surprise. "Is that my punishment?"

"Punishment?"

"I'm afraid I've misspoken. Is that _your_ punishment? To listen to me butcher your perfectly beautiful song?"

He shook his head. "You will play," he said sternly. "Tomorrow. I'll find something suitable for a beginner."

She nodded once and waited for him to play, barely able to contain herself. The static she felt buzzing through her nerves was magnified the moment his fingers touched the keys. In a heartbeat she was mesmerized, her mind blissfully separated from her body. Never in a million years, no matter how much she practiced, would she ever be able to do his music justice. Even if she memorized each note, she was certain she'd never capture the emotion he put into his compositions.

Once the song ended, she sighed and he turned to face her.

"Next time—"

With one hand on his shoulder, she kissed him softly on the lips. His arm wrapped around her waist, gentle yet claiming and safe. He drew her nearer, breathed against her face as he returned the kiss.

Just as she'd felt his emotion in song she now felt it in his embrace. She snuggled in closer and smiled against his lips. "We should never move from here."

"Excuse me?"

"Good things," she whispered, "happen on this piano bench."

He kissed her again.


	80. Mourning Brooch

Paladin80

Sophia felt her senses stir. Eyes closed, she nestled in his arms and savored each caress. Every few seconds he would pull back and look into her eyes. He would run the tips of his fingers along the sensitive area beneath her ear and then kiss her again, sometimes so soft she barely felt his lips, sometimes with a greater urgency that left her heart racing.

"Philippe will return soon," she whispered.

He grunted and gave a single nod, seemingly too distracted by her hair to listen to her words. He gently tugged the ribbon that held her braid and pulled it free. Slowly he raked his fingers through her hair, leaving her breathless. It felt so intimate yet still innocent, and she wasn't sure how to react. All she knew for certain was that she didn't want it to end.

"Your hair is so soft. I've never felt anything like it before."

Erik held her closer and exhaled hard against her face. She gripped the bench tighter as his tongue probed her lips.

Her hands found their way to his chest and then his shoulders. When she felt his tongue against hers, she held her breath. Her mind pulled her in a thousand directions, all unfamiliar yet enticing.

She wanted to succumb, to allow herself this moment. Each slow kiss, each soft caress told her how much he cared for her. But still she wasn't fully prepared. He held her tighter, his hand pressed firmly against the center of her back. She shifted and he drew her even nearer until she realized she couldn't move away from him. He'd trapped her. Unintentionally, she knew, but still he'd trapped her.

Fear wrapped itself around her mind and she pushed her hands against his chest. "No, please, don't."

Her eyes popped open and he immediately released her. "I—I had no intention of hurting you." He reached for his mask and turned away.

"I know. You didn't hurt me. It's just…"

Emotion hit her hard, and before she realized it tears ran down her cheeks, a sob caught in her throat. She didn't want him to think it was his face that frightened her. It was Karl who'd hurt her, who continued to frighten her. His actions were still etched in her mind, still branded in each heartbeat.

Faintly she heard the tap of leather against the piano. A moment later, her face was buried against his shoulder while his hand rested gently on her back. The panic she'd felt grip her had disappeared, her comfort with him slowly returned.

"I don't know how to explain what I feel."

He ran his fingers through her hair one more time and kissed her on the cheek, which told her she needn't say a word.

"I'll stay with you until your brother returns home," he promised. She felt his lips against the shell of her ear as he spoke.

"I would like that." She dried her eyes and searched his gaze. Suddenly she jerked back. "I almost forgot. I have something to give you."

He stood and helped her to her feet. "What is it?"

"It's a surprise." She grinned. "I can't tell you."

He looked uncertain. "Why can't you tell me?"

"Because it's a surprise."

"What's the surprise?"

She frowned and shook her head. "It's not a surprise if I tell you what it is. I must show you."

He shifted his weight and looked at her, impatience etched on his face. It amused her as she was accustomed to his reserved nature and proper demeanor.

"Here." She fished into her pocket and produced the black enamel brooch. "I found this in a jewelry box. The pin is rusted, but it's so beautiful. It looks like a bird."

He shook his head. "It's a cherub. The diamonds are flowers."

She turned her head to the side but it still looked like a bird. "I suppose that's more appropriate for a mourning brooch." She turned it over and showed him a black stone. "It's jet, I think. Perhaps it—"

He snatched it from her grasp. Lips parted, he stared at the piece of jewelry a moment. Judging by the expression on his face he had seen this item before.

He looked at her suddenly. "Where was this?"

She pointed down the hall. "There are several boxes, many with hats and some old letters, paintings…junk, I suppose."

"This was in a jewelry box?"

"Yes, the box was in terrible condition, but this is simply beautiful. I thought it might have belonged to—"

"Where is the box?"

"The solarium."

He stalked down the hall, glancing back once to see if she followed. He waited until she caught up, then pried at the brooch's silver backing until the smooth, oval stone popped off.

"You've broken it," she gasped.

He cupped his hand and showed her a pressed morning glory and a folded slip of paper. The color had faded but it was in otherwise perfect condition.

"How did you—"

"It was a game of sorts."

He carefully returned the flower to the brooch but left the piece of jewelry in two pieces.

He unfolded it and stared at the writing for a long while. Sophia stood back and wrung her hands as she waited for him to show her. Now who is impatient, she thought to herself.

"What does it say?"

He handed it to her and continued down the hall toward the solarium. "9, September, 1844. Your turn," was written in perfect script across one yellowed side.

"A childhood sweetheart?" she questioned once she caught up to him. She took a candle from the kitchen and handed it to him.

"No." He seemed mildly amused by her question. Together they walked into the solarium. "When it was winter and we stayed inside the house, my mother would write notes and hide them. When I found one, I wrote back and hid it someplace different."

"Inside of jewelry is definitely someplace different," she muttered to herself. She'd only seen locks of hair contained in mourning jewelry.

"People have hidden poison in rings for centuries." He craned his neck and looked around. "Where is the jewelry box?"

She pointed to the stack of boxes where she'd originally found it then later shoved it back into place.

The sight of the jewelry box changed his mood.

-o-

Erik removed the box from the pile and tapped the lock with his finger.

"It's broken."

He glanced at Sophia. "Yes, it's been broken for a very long time."

She stepped closer and smiled. "Your doing?"

"I didn't break it." He paused and grunted. "The knife I was holding at the time was responsible."

She chuckled. "That sounds like the perfect excuse from a little boy."

He still remembered the terror he'd felt when the knife slipped from his hands and he broke the lock. He'd cut his fingers as well, not deep, but he'd bled on the wooden box and the satin interior. The lock he could have fixed, he was certain of it, but the evidence was already clear.

Instead of coming forward, he'd hidden the box—and himself—beneath the bed. When at last he'd been found, he didn't know what to do or say. He'd lied. Even though he knew his mother didn't believe a word of it, she nodded and told him to clean his hands.

"Did it go unpunished?"

He opened the box and saw the stain still inside, remembered how his mother had bandaged his fingers and nodded for him to sit in the carriage and wait for her. She had a surprise for him, she explained half-heartedly. A ride down the maple-lined road, toward the smell of food and a large crowd, had delighted him.

_"I would like to think you still deserve this, Erik,"_ she had said sternly. He hated to disappoint her.

His surprise was an afternoon spent at the traveling fair. The smell of cinnamon apples enticed him, the looming crowd frightened him. Head bowed, he'd clutched her hand.

_"You mustn't run off, do you understand?"_

"I imagine you were quite convincing," Sophia commented suddenly.

The sight of the brooch and jewelry box weighed heavily on his mind. He fit the paper into the back and pushed the stone into place. The games were long since over, the memories it carried tarnished. He glanced at his fingers and saw a very thin, barely visible scar from the knife.

"Not this time," he muttered to himself.


	81. Manor Guest

NDBRs: Changes throughout. Sorry about the delay, everyone. I just started a new job, and my personal life has been fairly hectic and unpleasant as of late.

Paladin81

A week passed and Erik's mood remained even but sullen. In the quiet house he took his meals in his room, usually with Sophia keeping him company. Her aunt had not yet sent word to the Manor. No news from Paris was certainly not good news, especially with the city under siege.

Ever since he'd left the city he'd only received fragments of news, none of which mentioned the opera house's former inhabitants. He had no idea where Madame Giry and her daughter now lived.

Two letters arrived at the house, one expressing interest in his opera, the other a blatant refusal for an unknown, uneducated composer. He'd changed the name of Don Juan Triumphant and rearranged the score until the overall feel of the music remained unchanged but he was certain few would recognize it.

With the brooch ever present at his side, he submerged himself in his work and barely noticed day turning to night or the sun rising in the morning. The jewelry box and its contents had opened a world he'd forgotten, one which brought him to a bridge in his life. It held for him both sadness and joy, depending on how he held it to the light. Mostly, he studied it by candlelight.

He spent many hours alone, wondering what had become of the previous owner. Always he heard her voice telling him to stay close.

Gabe returned home at the end of the week and delivered three horses, which seemed to cause a stir with Rene. As he grumbled every step of the way, there was no doubt what the horesemaster would ask.

"Our stable contains six horses. What do you wish me to do, Monsieur? Keep the animals or sell them to slaughter?"

Both Gabe and Sophia magically appeared at the bottom of the stairs to hear his answer. Despite his arms being loosely crossed, Gabe's face appeared anxious. Sophia was clever enough to carry a carrot in her hand as though it would decide the horses' fate.

"Two of the horses belong to Monsieur Dupree. The stable itself owns four," Gabe replied.

"People will pay top dollar for horse meat, Monsieur."

"And a good, sound horse. They're excellent breeding stock."

"For a horse farm," Rene corrected. "This is not a race yard, Gabe."

Erik looked past Rene and stared at Gabe. Sophia pursed her lips, her eyes pleading with him to keep the horses. It wasn't a matter of saving funds, he knew. With a sigh, he waved Rene away and nodded toward Gabe.

"It seems your labor has tripled."

The young man dashed out of the house and returned to the stable while his father stomped after him, apparently dissatisfied with his employer's response. Only Sophia remained behind, and she appeared quite pleased. Without being invited she walked into his room and looked for a reason to stay. She set the carrot on the nightstand and immediately stripped the bed sheets, which she had already changed that morning.

When he returned to his desk, she sighed heavily which prompted him to face her.

"You've been very quiet lately. If not for the lamp in your room I wouldn't know you were in here today." Her gaze was trained on the jewelry box.

"I'm in here every day."

She blinked at him and he noticed her face had returned to its normal color, the bruises and swelling no longer noticeable.

"Will you return to the overseer's house tonight after supper?"

His lips parted and he swiftly turned away. She knew more than he thought.

"I have not yet decided what I shall do with my time this evening, Mademoiselle."

She bristled at his words. "My apologies, Monsieur."

Exhaling, he looked at her again. "You should not stay awake so late in the night."

A smile played at the corner of her lips. "And what about you?"

"It's my house," he answered lamely.

She chuckled. "The roof worries me."

"Why?"

She shifted her weight and set the sheets down. "You haven't seen it by the light of day. Come summer—if it lasts that long—you'll need to have it replaced. At least that's what Philippe said."

"Your brother hasn't returned yet, has he?"

She shook her head. "If you had seen the woman he is visiting, you might not return either."

His eyes widened. "Why not?"

"Never mind. If he's with Laure and Sabine he's not meddling in the kitchen." She turned from him and straightened the sheets, which made him smile. "Citrine is almost done cooking supper. Would you care for a drink?"

"Tell Citrine to hold supper a while longer. I have to finish this first." He tapped his fingers on a stack of paper.

"You'll be here all night."

"It's not as much as you would think."

"Very well. I'll—"

Her words were disrupted by the sound of Rene shouting outside. The disruption caused the two of them to walk to his bedroom window.

A carriage had pulled around the back, its curtains pulled tight. There were no markings on the outside of the black lacquer, which left Sophia and Erik exchanging looks.

"Perhaps it's Philippe," Sophia said under her breath. She didn't seem very enthusiastic over her brother's return.

"Has he returned home at night?"

"Not once. I've been alone all week."

He felt her lean against his chest. Unable to resist, he placed his hand on her shoulder as they waited. With a smile, she glanced at his hand and then at his face.

"I though you had forgotten me," she murmured.

He stepped closer, felt a strand of her hair graze the back of his hand. "Never," he whispered. He cleared his throat. "My music…it's…"

"I understand."

Her gaze was trained on the yard but he wanted her to turn and face him. He'd lost himself—as he often had in the past—to a pen, a paper, and his music. Composing seemed a better excuse than fragmented memories and a rotten jewelry box. He studied the side of her face and knew it was not a good reason.

"Sophia—"

"Who in the hell is this?" they heard Rene grumble loudly.

The driver opened the door, and as they both looked on a woman stepped from the carriage, her face blocked by the angle of the cab. Sophia stood on the tips of her toes.

"I don't have enough places at the table set." She glanced at him. "You didn't tell me…"

"I didn't know."

She looked out the window again and Erik felt her excitement buzz through the room. She reached back and found his hand. Startled, he squeezed her fingers tightly before he eased the pressure. If he'd hurt her she didn't show it. Her arms flung around his neck.

"She's here!"

"I beg your pardon?"

Her eyes dazzled as they met his. A wide grin spread across her lips and she stared out the window one last time. A cane came into view, followed by a woman in a black frock and her hair in a graying bun.

"Aunt Annette."

-o-

He'd never called her by her first name. Stern and motherly, she'd always been Madame Giry. Even the title Mother Giry seemed too familiar in his mind, and despite the years they'd known one another, he'd always kept their relationship formal.

Sophia released a squeal of delight and shouted over her shoulder but he missed her words. The door closed and he was left alone to stare out the bedroom window.

Nothing had changed, at least physically. She was still a woman with a fair complexion and gradually fading beauty. Years of dancing had made her strong. An accident—which had occurred years after he took up residence in the opera house—had left her with a cane at her side but her willfulness and pride still intact.

Sophia appeared in the yard a moment later and hugged her aunt tightly. He couldn't hear her words but he understood the excitement in her voice and actions. She was in the presence of family, which he knew she relished. At least someone had a loved one nearby, he thought wryly.

While the driver removed her belongings, Gabe steadied the horses and Rene looked on with his usual sour face.

"Monsieur?" Citrine tapped on the door. He turned to see her peering at him. "Ah, so you are still alive. I expected you to be a skeleton by now."

He nodded but didn't speak, which only drew her into the room. By her tone of voice he already knew she was insulted when his supper was returned to the kitchen virtually untouched.

"You like salt, I add salt, but if I add any more you may as well take your supper in the stable."

"Excuse me?"

"A salt lick." She shook her head. "Forget I said it. I came up here to tell you that either I deliver your food now or I'm afraid your dog may snatch it from the stove. He's a sneaky beast, Monsieur, not a very good representative of the Irish. Now I am a good example of an Irish saint."

He stared at, uncertain of what to say.

"It was a jest merely to see if you're paying attention. You've been so quiet lately, more so than usual. Don't disappear on me, Monsieur." She grinned and smoothed her hands over her skirt. "In fact, I give you two plates tonight so I may fatten you up. You're far too thin for my liking."

With that she left him and returned downstairs. He glanced out the window again and found Madame staring at him, her eyes narrowed and expression unreadable. He nodded once and closed the curtain, wondering if she would be glad to see him again.


	82. The Fate of Castor and Pollux

Paladin82

"You're here!" Sophia squealed. "Aunt Anne!"

"So I am." Anne Giry watched the coachman remove her bag and trunk from the carriage. Her eyes scanned the estate, settling briefly on the Manor. She sighed in relief that the long and uncomfortable journey was finally over. "So I am."

"May I take your hat? Your coat? Do you need anything?"

"A good walk across the yard to stretch my legs, my dear. Really, you fuss as though I'm an old woman."

"Oh no, that isn't what I was implying. Or attempting to imply. I mean to say—"

She touched Sophia's cheek and smiled. "How long has it been since I've seen you? A hundred years could pass and I could still pick you out from a hundred doe-eyed girls. You haven't changed at all, have you?"

Sophia giggled to herself and felt her cheeks burn. "Still talking more than is necessary, I suppose."

"Oh, horsefeathers. Your brother is still strutting about like a cock in front of hens, isn't he? Reminds me of my brother. Where is Philippe, anyhow? Off barking orders, I have no doubt."

She shifted her weight. "Actually…"

"He seemed very worried in his letter to me. I packed my bags the moment I read it. I'll have you know that I don't uproot myself for just anyone."

"We're glad to have you."

They walked across the yard, leaving Gabe to gather the bags and haul them toward the house.

"How are you feeling? Your brother made it sound as though you'd taken ill."

"Oh, no. I—"

"Your complexion is pallid."

"Oh, well, I—"

"Haven't you been eating? You're much too thin. I remember when you and Meg were children. It was easy to tell the difference between the two of you—her and her dancer's body—you and your milkmaid hips. You were always so sturdy, so strong. Men look for that in a wife, don't they?"

Sophia felt herself blush. She shrugged. "I…I don't know."

"No offers yet?" Aunt Ann lifted a brow.

"None I would consider."

A smile spread across her aunt's face. She squeezed Sophia's hand. "There's the witty girl I came to see. You haven't been feeling well, have you?"

"I'm feeling better now."

"Now that I'm here." She embraced Sophia and kissed her on the cheek. "Now, enough formal salutations, my dear girl, tell me everything." She stood back and looked Sophia over. "Once we're inside, of course."

Sophia smiled. "I simply can't believe you're here, Aunt Anne. It's been so long since I've seen you. How is Meg?"

"Dancing in Prague. She was accepted immediately into the academy—with a recommendation from the de Chagnys, naturally."

Sophia furrowed her brow. "I apologize, but I'm not familiar with them."

Her aunt raised a brow. "No?"

She shook her head.

"You have never heard the name? De Chagny? Raoul and Philippe, the Vicomte and Comte de Chagny."

"Perhaps my brother has heard the name. He reads an awful lot in the newspapers from Paris—"

"Let's leave your brother out of this, shall we?" She smoothed Sophia's hair and brushed lint from her blouse. "A moment of tea and talk between women is exactly what I need after such a long journey."

"That sounds lovely."

Aunt Anne sighed. "Honestly, Philippe couldn't have asked me to visit at a better time. The opera house is in shambles, the city…it's become a hellish place. The siege may be over, but it's too much to bear."

Sophia pursed her lips. She hadn't read much in the newspapers and had only heard bits and pieces from her brother. Though the siege had ended late in January, she hadn't realized that months later the effects would continue to linger.

"I'm glad you're here."

"So am I. Now, let's go inside." She looked to the windows again and paused. "How is he?"

"I beg your pardon? Erik?"

Her aunt smiled as they approached the front door. "Yes," she said. "Erik. Is that what he still calls himself?"

"Does he change his name often? Or did he refuse to be called Monsieur Belmont when he lived in Paris?"

"I doubt he needed a name while he lived in Paris," Aunt Anne said under her breath.

"Pardon me?"

"I've worried about him living here, far from…everything. How is he?

"Occupied."

-o-

"Occupied with what?" Madame Giry asked incredulously.

The sound of her voice made Erik smile inwardly as he started down the stairs. It had been a long time since he'd heard her speak with authority.

The last three years of her ballet career were the undisputed highlight of her life (save for her daughter and late husband). He still remembered how he'd watch her from his box, the young soloist. It was the only time he had seen her since she'd moved from the dormitories into a quiet apartment closer to the managers' offices. Her room was built on a slab, which meant there was no way to walk through tunnels to see her. The mirror in her room faced the outer wall, giving him no entrance. With the start of a brilliant career had come the end of their friendship.

"With his music," Sophia answered. "He's a beautiful musician. I'm no music critic, but he's written several pieces that I just adore."

"He's still composing?"

"Every day from the moment he wakes until he goes to bed—if he chooses to sleep."

"You rarely see him, then?"

"I see him…on occasion." She stared at the floor and moved her foot across the rug. "He's teaching me to play the piano. But honestly,his time is better spent writing than teaching me. He really is amazing—at least I think he is. But I suppose I don't really know since I haven't met anyone else who...well…you understand."

"Ah, yes. He is very good at writing music. Composing must keep him from making a fuss."

Sophia gave a nervous chuckle. "You're simply terrible, Aunt Anne."

"A fuss indeed, Madame," he muttered under his breath as he stomped down the last two steps.

Both women turned to face him. Sophia licked her lips and smiled while Anne Giry took a step back.

"Erik," Anne said. The arrogance in her tone had slipped away. It was as though she suddenly remembered how powerful he was—and what a terror to her life he'd been. He felt like stepping away from her as well.

"Madame Giry," he said stiffly.

She met his eye with an expression that equaled his formality. "Your home is just as beautiful in the winter as it was in the summer."

He nodded and linked his hands behind his back. "Suitable."

"And not a worry here for you, I imagine. You have my niece to care for your home, my nephew to look after the grounds."

"True." His hands clenched as he waited for her to mention the previous owner. Surely she knew Madame Belmont's current whereabouts or how she could be contacted. Nights at the overseer's house had given him little information.

"Well, then…" Her eyes widened, her gaze trained directly behind him. "My God," she whispered. "That's the biggest dog I've ever seen."

Fidelio stood beside Erik, his tail wagging and neck stretched out to sniff the new guest, who was now hiding partially behind her niece.

"Oh, he's friendly. You're liable to have him lick you to death rather than bite you, isn't that right?" Sophia asked Erik.

"So far." He patted the dog on the head and rubbed his neck. "But he's still a pup."

"He's going to be taller than you when he's an adult," Sophia commented.

Their eyes met briefly before he turned his attention back to the dog. He could see Madame watching him carefully, judging his every move, listening to each word he spoke. If she was protective of her dancers, he assumed she was even more so toward a member of her family.

"I had better train him well, then," he said under his breath.

"Before he trains you." Sophia laughed to herself.

He glanced at her again and found her smiling, which made him grunt. "I may have already lost."

Madame Giry tapped her cane on the floor, which made Fidelio jump back. He sniffed the unfamiliar object once his master patted his head and reassured him that the stranger meant no harm.

"He's fortunate he lives here," she said as Fidelio sniffed her shoes. "Four months ago he would have ended up beside Castor and Pollux."

"The Greek gods?" Sophia asked.

"Elephants," Erik corrected. "Two of the most beloved animals in Paris were taken from the zoo and slaughtered."

She wrinkled her nose and called Fidelio to her side. "That's repulsive."

"That's survival," Madame Giry corrected.

"No one would want to eat you, would they, Fidelio? All that hair of yours. Yuck. And you're too handsome and sweet, aren't you?" she cooed, which excited the dog so much that he apparently didn't notice how his tail whipped his master in the shins.

Citrine tapped on the door frame. "You must be Madame Giry," she said brightly. "I'll bring tea to the parlor immediately." She looked to Erik and turned her head to the side. "Your salt lick is almost finished cooking."

"Fine." He crossed his arms and took a step back to avoid Fidelio's tail. However, once he heard Citrine moving pots and pans in the kitchen, he abandoned affection for the promise of food.

"He likes you," Madame Giry said.

Erik glanced up and saw her staring at Sophia, who was busy brushing dog hair from her skirt.

"He should love me," Sophia said. "I give him half my supper."

Anne Giry stared at Erik briefly before she looked away. "Ah, yes, I do believe the dog likes you as well."


	83. Glimpse at the Past

A/N: There is a link on my website to my very first official interview concerning Phantom stories and my Viking stories, which come out August 1st.

Paladin83

"How long have you known Erik?" Sophia asked as she slid into the dining room chair across from her aunt.

Erik had decided to finish his music for the night and then—at her persuasion—join them for supper at the table. She had no idea how long he would spend on his music, since she'd walked into his room in the past and heard him grumble he was almost finished. She learned swiftly that he didn't like to be interrupted—and that it could be two hours before she saw him. With an old friend in the house Sophia hoped he would allow his music to wait.

"Oh…years. Since I was fourteen, I believe."

Sophia's eyes widened. "You've known him a long time."

Aunt Anne stirred her tea. "Honestly, no."

"But you said—"

"I should say I have known _of_ him for a long time."

"I don't understand."

"We met a long time ago, but we didn't stay close friends."

"Why not?"

She shrugged. "Different people, different lives."

"But you both lived within the opera house, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I grew up with ballet while he grew interested in his music."

"I would have thought music and ballet would go hand-in-hand."

Aunt Anne paused and took a deep breath. She glanced at the doorway, then lowered her voice. "Ballet involves an entire troupe of little dancing girls, all giggling and playing games. We practice, live in the dormitories, and share our meals. Composing, however, is a lonely occupation well-suited for those who do not enjoy large gatherings."

Their conversation dwindled as Sophia considered her aunt's words. Aunt Anne seemed bitter, though she never offered a concrete reason.

"How did you first meet?" she asked suddenly.

Aunt Anne sipped her tea. "It's been too long, Sophia. You cannot expect me to remember such details."

Erik entered as she finished speaking and paused in the doorway.

"You have finished for the evening?" Sophia laced her fingers together and smiled. "Perhaps you would play for us after supper?"

"I have merely stopped. Momentarily."

"Your muse is hungry," she teased.

"Perhaps." He kept his eyes trained on his guest, despite Fidelio and Citrine on his heels.

"No, no no! For once you shall have manners and eat your supper in the kitchen," Citrine scolded the dog as she held fast to his collar. Despite her words, the wolfhound trudged forward, choking himself with each step. He dragged the cook around the table until he sat between Sophia and Erik.

"We have a guest," Citrine huffed the moment Sophia reached out to pat his head. "For one night he can behave like a dog."

"Most likely tomorrow," Sophia chuckled. She glanced at Erik, but he was still closely watching her aunt. She crossed her ankles under the table and nervously rearranged her silverware. "Unless you would like us to take him into the kitchen." She waited again for a response. "Monsieur?"

Erik looked at her suddenly. "He'll lay at my feet," he answered at last.

"Monsieur," Citrine protested.

"I said he will lay at my feet."

Citrine hesitated a moment, glancing from the dog to its master. At last she gave an exasperated sigh and stormed off.

"Sophia," Aunt Anne said suddenly. "How is your eye?"

The question caught her off guard and she nearly knocked her wine glass off the table.

"My eye? Oh, it's fine. Better, I think. The same…I suppose. It's…it's fine," she stammered. "Thank you for asking."

"Can you still see?"

Sophia stared at her napkin. "Yes, I can still see," she muttered.

Citrine appeared and Sophia sighed in relief of the distraction. For better or worse she had forgotten about her vision. Too many other concerns—and delights—had taken her attention away from her condition.

She started to rise and help Citrine, but her friend issued a sharp glance that kept her seated.

"I worry about you constantly," Aunt Anne said under her breath as beef and vegetables were passed around the table. "Sometimes I think it was a mistake for Philippe to keep you here rather than send you to Paris."

"Eating three ounces of horsemeat per day?" Erik grumbled without looking up.

"She would have been in the presence of her family," Aunt Anne corrected.

"Family, indeed," he mumbled.

All three of them paused and exchanged looks. Sophia pursed her lips, the bitterness in his voice forcing her to lower her eyes.

"Three ounces in rations, you say?" Sophia chimed in. "That doesn't seem like very much at all."

"It's not," her aunt replied.

"I believe Sophia only eats three ounces, what with all the food she sneaks to this beast." Citrine nodded at Erik, then grinned and nodded at Fidelio. "My sincerest apologies. Wrong beast."

Sophia managed a smile, appreciating Citrine's effort to break the tension. "I believe I consume four ounces if you count the dog hair."

Aunt Anne wrinkled her nose. "Please, Sophia, we're eating."

"It's like seasoning in this house," Citrine said with a sly smile. "You are fortunate you're sitting on that side of the table, Madame Giry. The farther from the source, the better."

As if he were offended, Fidelio stood and stretched. With a groan he followed Citrine into the kitchen, his rear end swinging back and forth as he trotted along. Before the door closed, Sophia saw Citrine reach into her pocket and give Fidelio a chunk of beef fat.

With the dog and the cook gone, Sophia, Aunt Anne, and Erik sat in silence and enjoyed their meal.

"Tomorrow you and I will take a long walk," Aunt Anne said at last. "You look as though you could use fresh air."

"She has lessons tomorrow," Erik interrupted.

Sophia felt her heart stutter at his words. "I-I do?"

His expression softened and her heart went from palpitating to melting when she met his gaze.

"Months of learning shouldn't go to waste," he answered sternly.

"A new student?" her aunt questioned as she cut through her meat.

"My first," he replied. "For the piano."

"What else have you taught?" Sophia asked, finding a way to continue the conversation. She sat up a little straighter, proud of herself for keeping the topic on music, which she knew Erik loved and her aunt knew well. It was the perfect conversation.

Her excitement was cut short when she saw Erik and her aunt staring at one another briefly before they both quickly looked away.

"Voice lessons," Erik muttered under his breath.

"Ah." She nodded, struggling to keep the conversation flowing. "I remember you asked if I could sing. Did any of your students perform in your operas?"

Her aunt placed her fork on the table. "Only one of his works made it the stage."

"It must be quite impressive to not only teach a student but to have the person you've taught perform your work. I can't imagine anything more uplifting. Was she the lead?"

"Yes," Erik answered at last.

The room grew quiet and Sophia sank into her chair. She had no idea what she'd said, but apparently she had misspoken. Determination fueled her to keep the conversation running, even if it did sputter along.

"You must have been quite proud."

Aunt Anne promptly folded her napkin and tossed it on the table. "If you both will excuse me, I believe I will lie down for a while."

Sophia stood and started to follow. "You're not feeling well?"

"Not at the moment."


	84. An Innocent Question

Thanks to Doost for her editing on about 2/3 of everything I write. She's been busy in Hollywood but still manages to pencil in an Erik…and a Brendan…and a Birgir…and a Mat…and a Garic. Doost, queen of the virtual highlighter!

And special thanks to Jax and Pete ;) for inspiring me to go all the way and step it up a notch. For Pete's sake! Erik needed more angst! You were right on target. Thanks for slapping me around.

Paladin84

He'd barely sat down again and already a headache throbbed in his temples. Rotating his neck, he listened to Citrine ask if Madame needed anything else. When Madame said she was fine, Citrine reminded her to shut the door, unless she wanted a hundred pound dog on her bed.

"Dogs are filthy creatures," Madame grumbled. "They should be tied up outside, where they belong."

"Oh, dear," Sophia said to herself.

"Sometimes I'd rather tie up the men and allow the dogs to wander," Citrine replied.

Erik closed his eyes. He shouldn't have left his room for supper. When he'd walked downstairs, he'd expected light conversation, supplied mostly by Sophia and her aunt. He assumed they would discuss whatever women fancied—dresses, hats, shoes, perhaps. As the night wore on and the wine bottle emptied, he would question Madame Giry about the former owners of the Manor.

But then Madame had questioned Sophia's condition, and the uneasiness he saw in Sophia's gaze angered him. It was obvious she was embarrassed by her faltering vision, yet her aunt continued to question her. His protective nature flared to life and he mentally drew her nearer, shielding her.

"She's had a long journey from Paris to the Manor and I'm sure she's simply exhausted," Sophia said once the guest room door closed.

Erik knew she wasn't exhausted. She was angry that he'd claimed Sophia as his own…as his student. He'd realized too late that reminding Sophia of her lessons was a pompous and foolhardy move.

Sophia shook her head in disappointment. "I had hoped we would enjoy supper together, seeing as it's been so long since I've seen her…and, well, I had hoped you would be pleased by her visit."

Erik watched Sophia as she stood on the tips of her toes and craned her neck. Lips pursed, she lowered her head.

"Oh, I do apologize."

He exhaled hard. "You apologize for everything," he growled.

His tone caused her to step back. "Excuse me?"

"You have no ability to control her health."

"That's…true…I suppose."

"Don't apologize."

"I…I don't know what to say. I app—" She shook her head. "I will not do it again. I promise."

He glanced from her to her empty chair and she sat immediately.

"I didn't realize she preferred dancing to music. I would have assumed that they would go together. After all," she rambled, "who can dance without music? Well, I suppose some people can dance to whatever they hear in their heads, but I need music. Of course, Grace is not my middle name."

He narrowed his eyes. "It's…Patrice, isn't it?"

She chuckled nervously. "Well, yes, but, you see my mother used to tell me that my middle name wasn't Grace when I was younger because I was clumsy. It's…nonsense."

His jaw twitched and he grunted. He had no desire to hear that her mother had insulted her.

"I thought it was funny." She pursed her lips, her cheeks turning red. "You see, I am not a very good dancer. Per chance, do you also give dance lessons?"

He looked up from his food and blinked. With a shy smile, she tilted her head to the side and laughed.

"Once you've completed your piano lessons you may pursue dancing."

"Oh, good. Then I may be able to join the circus." She fumbled with her knife and excused herself again. "You look like a man who can dance wonderfully."

Her comment almost made him choke, but she didn't seem to notice. She'd found another thread of conversation and he knew she'd continue until it ran out completely.

"I'm not sure what it is, exactly, but you have…a certain…" She paused and gulped down half her wine. "You're quite elegant," she blurted out.

He blinked, unsure of whether or not he'd heard her correctly.

"Pardon me?" He'd been called a monster, a devil, and a ghost, but never elegant. Her unexpected compliment took the jagged edge off the evening and he sat back, feeling relaxed at last.

Sophia covered her mouth with her napkin. "Oh, I shouldn't have said anything." She paused, but he knew she'd continue. Her habits had never been more charming. "It's just…I suppose…well, I haven't given it much thought."

He held his wineglass in one hand but didn't take a sip. With no desire to move, he waited, completely intrigued by her words—despite the fact that she hadn't said anything quite yet.

"The way you walk. You have a certain…gait? As I have said, I haven't given it much thought." She immediately filled her mouth with food and concentrated on chewing. When she finally swallowed she looked at him and half-smiled. "Honestly, you should tell me when to stop speaking. I must be driving you absolutely mad."

"I've grown accustomed to you," he said under his breath.

"Your tolerance has grown."

"That sounds like something your brother would say."

"Yes, and I would tell him he walks like a troll."

He paused, his fork inches from his lips. "A rather unexpected comparison," he said.

"Now, Philippe is a good dancer and he has a marvelous voice. I think I've told you before how he can sing. He would have been a wonderful performer but he never enjoyed arts. He prefers his hands in the soil and his face in the sun. To each their own, I suppose."

"He should return soon."

"Gabe said he'd return tomorrow evening. Citrine told me this morning that she's turned away three men already."

"Excuse me?"

"Workers. Didn't she tell you?"

He shook his head and stabbed a spear of asparagus with his fork.

"She probably decided not to bother you. You'll see them eventually."

"For the orchards?"

Sophia nodded. "Seasonal workers will be coming to the door every day for the next month or two, hoping for employment. Philippe's very good at choosing workers. Ever since he was thirteen or fourteen he could look at a dozen people and pick the best two. You'd see a scrawny young girl and a bigger, burly man and he'd take the girl. I used to think he just wanted to have a handful of women at his disposal, but he's not one to fool around when it comes to business."

"Sharing the profits should offer him quite an incentive."

"True, but he values proving himself far beyond how much money he has in his hand." She twirled her glass in her hand, her gaze trained on the wine. "My father's land never brought in much money. Kept us from starving, made my mother comfortable, but it wasn't much—not like horses or textiles. If you allow Philippe control of the orchards he'll do whatever it takes to make it successful, not because he wants his share but because he can do it."

"I've already promised him control," Erik replied.

"I know. It just seems so distant now." She inhaled deeply and released a ragged sigh. "Everything seems so far away."

Erik gripped the table's edge. Sophia felt far away, more distant than he wished to tolerate. He opened his mouth, but she continued to speak.

"I had hoped you and Aunt Anne would start where you left off."

_We have_, he thought bitterly. That was the problem. The years had passed, their friendship grown dormant. He never thanked her for giving him a home, she never thanked him for guarding her apartments at night. Christine had been a long-awaited breaking point. There was no turning back now, he thought morosely. What was done was done.

He wanted it undone.

"It's been a long time since we've seen each other."

"But…but you lived within the same building, worked in the same opera house…how can this be?"

Her ignorance only frustrated him. For the first time he realized that he'd had a clean slate with her. She was too innocent, too naïve to have known his past.

"Different interests," he muttered.

Sophia heaved a sigh. "This is giving me a terrible headache. Would you care to tell me more about your opera?" She frowned when she looked him in the eye. "Or would you rather discuss politics? I know nothing about either subject."

He lifted his wine glass and watched the contents swirl. He'd felt like this for years: Constantly moving, yet constantly contained. With a sigh, he brought the glass to his lips and took a sip. From over the rim he watched Sophia as she studied him. Always pleasant, always willing to speak to him.

Because she didn't know to whom she offered her affection.

He could tell her, or her aunt would inform her later in the evening, possibly the next morning…soon.

What would be the expression on Sophia's face as Madame Giry sat her down and took her by the hand? She'd never nod silently and wait for her aunt to explain. She'd question every word, request every gory detail. Unintentionally she'd pick his life apart and know everything he wanted to forget, to bury along with the opera house rubble.

She'd resurrect his darker side, the cold, tremulous past he wished to shed. But why should it leave him alone? It was a part of him, each dreadful, lonely moment. Misery was what he'd known for years. It wasn't his past and it wasn't a memory. It was him, inside and out, present and future.

And he could either show her or allow someone else to bring her into his life. Either way she would know, but at least he had a choice. For once he had a choice.

He set his wine glass down and pushed away from the dining room table.

"It was called Don Juan Triumphant."


	85. Tragic Love Story

This chapter took forever to get right (I hope I got it!) I've also been really busy promoting my two novellas, which came out on August 2nd, 2006. Please check my profile for more info and a link! Then check out my website for a contest in which you could earn a free copy and other exciting prizes!

Paladin85

"It was called Don Juan Triumphant," Erik said, "and it was only performed once."

Sophia clasped her hands under the table. "I wish I had seen it."

He frowned and looked away. "It was a disaster."

She shook her head and moved her chair closer to his. "Nonsense. You shouldn't listen to what critics say. They hate everything, most likely because they're jealous that they don't have talent. Oh, writing doesn't take much. Anyone can form a simple sentence. But music? Now that is art."

"It wasn't the critics."

"You were not pleased with the performance?"

He glanced at her, his complexion pale, his features strained. "Sophia…"

Her gaze lowered. "I appolo…Please continue."

His chair scraped against the floor. "It's stifling in here," Erik said under his breath. He tugged at his cravat. "May we speak somewhere else?"

"Would you care for a walk?"

She thought for certain he would refuse, but as he glanced at the door and back at her, he nodded. "Air," he said more to himself than to her.

"Perhaps I should see if Aunt Anne needs a cup of tea or an extra pillow."

"No." He looked her in the eye, sadness filling his gaze. "We won't be long."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes. I'm certain."

With her cape in hand she followed him toward the front door, watching him as he walked. It reminded her of the night he'd arrived. Such a tall figure should have stood upright, proud of his imposing presence. Yet his shoulders had sloped—just as they did now—and he hung his head.

They walked outside and Sophia looked up, thankful for a distraction to an otherwise uncomfortable evening. Once they stood away from the house and the trees, the sky opened up to endless darkness dotted with a thousand tiny, bright lights. Closing her left eye, she studied the flawless night sky.

"It's amazing how many stars one can see when there are no clouds. Doesn't it make you feel…oh, small, I suppose?" She wrinkled her nose and heard him as he continued to walk around the yard. "I wonder how we look from way up there. I don't suppose anyone will ever know, will they? Or perhaps someone will."

When he didn't offer a reply she turned and looked at him. His anxious expression startled her.

"You look as though you fear I might bite you," she said with a laugh.

He didn't return her mirth. Hands at his sides, his shoulders sagged and he exhaled. "It failed, and it was my doing."

"You shouldn't—"

"It was my doing," he said firmly.

Sophia's lips parted but she held her tongue and finally nodded.

"I thought I wrote it for myself….a sort of memorial. It took me years to write the majority of the scenes, and after a while I knew it would never be completed—at least not how I wanted. But then I realized, when the last notes filled my mind, I knew I was no longer writing it for myself. I had conjured the entire work—my life's work—all for a particular soprano."

"Your student?" She couldn't help but question him.

"Christine. I wanted her to play the lead."

"She must have been very good."

He struggled to speak. "She was good, but she wasn't to her full potential."

"Ah, is that why she's your former student?" Sophia teased.

His frown deepened. "I drove her away."

"Why?" she whispered.

It was a long time before he spoke. Hopelessness clouded his gaze, and she wondered if the woman had died. It was a terrible thought, but she knew by the way he stood that he'd lost someone dear to his heart. Perhaps he blamed himself.

"You needn't tell me. I see it in your eyes. You loved her," Sophia said quietly.

He shook his head.

"Then you cared greatly for her." She would not allow him to deny his feelings. "Love makes beautiful music, doesn't it? I've always imagined that the best composers were romantics. Perhaps that's wishful thinking on my part."

"If I had loved her I would not have…kept her as my student." He paused and swallowed hard. "I held her back unintentionally. When she deserved her freedom I wished to contain her, stunt her progress."

"So that no one else would see how talented she was?"

"No, I wanted everyone to see how talented she was, to make her the star of the theater. But there was…an inconvenience."

"Another man," Sophia sighed.

Yes, she knew the story well. Her favorite books, which she read late in the night, were always tragic love stories. Her romantic heart devoured tales of suffering and loss. She didn't want her heartstrings merely pulled, she wanted them ripped out.

"Wealthy?" she questioned.

He nodded.

"Well-educated?"

"Naturally."

"Handsome, too, wasn't he? Cherub-like features. With a white horse. They always have those."

"Two white horses," Erik corrected. His tense features softened.

Sophia groaned. "Even worse! And I'm certain he was a true scoundrel at heart. Evil as they come—wicked…despicable." Her hands balled into fists as her imagination galloped away.

He grunted. "He was too naïve to be wicked."

Sophia strolled around the corner of the Manor to where there was a bench near the wooden stump used for splitting firewood. She sat down and watched Erik as he stood at a distance.

"Then he was wicked in the making." She wrapped her cape tighter and smiled.

"I was the wicked one," he blurted out. He clenched his fist and exhaled. "I thought she…knew me better than anyone else. But she never knew me."

"You're a difficult man to know."

He looked at her sharply and Sophia cringed beneath his glare. Almost immediately he bowed his head and wandered closer.

"I deceived her."

"How?"

Again he was silent for a long moment. His jaw twitched, nostrils flared in the moonlight. She knew he was angry, but it wasn't with her.

"I would teach her almost every evening, but I…never allowed her to see me."

"Well, then naturally she didn't know you," she said gently. "But how did you manage to teach her? Through a wall?"

He didn't answer and Sophia cupped her chin in her hands. They remained in uncomfortable silence for a moment as the wind began to pick up.

"Did she ever see you?"

"Unfortunately," he muttered.

His words made her cringe. She knew without asking that this woman hadn't merely seen him. She'd seen him without his mask.

"She was a chorus girl, an orphan of the theater with no family." His voice grew distant, his head remained bowed. "I had no family, she had no family."

"Did you tell her you wrote the opera for her?"

He considered her words a moment before he shook his head. He moved closer until he stood within arm's reach.

"I didn't have to tell her. The lead fit her in every way…her voice, her personality. I knew if she sang this role it would lift her career to new heights and everyone throughout Europe would know her name…her face. She'd sing for queens, presidents…everyone would come to see her sing. They'd want to know her."

The passion in his voice made her smile. She'd never met anyone who had such confidence in their work. But when she looked at him she realized his tone belied his sullen appearance. It broke her heart, and she wondered if she witnessed his faith in himself dying or the rebirth of a genius.

"And they would want to know you as well, the great teacher and composer, Erik Belmont."

He appeared devastated, but nodded.

"Didn't you want everyone to know that you wrote the opera?"

"I had never intended for anyone to hear it."

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"But if it was perfect and written for her, why wouldn't you take credit for it? I don't think I understand."

"None of it made sense," he answered under his breath. "My God. It was madness."

She swallowed hard, fighting the pity she felt welling in her heart.

"What was your opera about?"

"About a man who fell in love with a beautiful young woman. She mistook him for someone else, and instead of revealing who he was he decided to lie to her, to continue the charade. But his intentions were good," he added quickly. "He wanted to love her but she couldn't love him."

"Because she didn't know him?"

"Because it wasn't meant to be. It was his fault. He was a liar, a fool…she deserved someone better…someone real."

"It sounds like a tragedy."

Their eyes met and Sophia sat very still, afraid of what he would say, but still wanting to hear him tell her.

"Sophia." He said her name then looked away. She held her breath, willing him to continue.

"It was about me…and Christine."

She rose and stood beside him. "I know."

"You don't know."

"Not all of it, but enough for tonight, don't you think?"

"I wasn't good to her," he said sternly.

"Did you intend to be cruel to her?"

"No, never. But I…I should have left her to her dancing career rather than entertaining foolish ideas."

"Love isn't rational, is it?" she said gently. "It's the embodiment of foolishness, frivolous moments….all sorts of wonderful, chaotic thoughts."

"I don't know if I loved her or not," he said softly. "I don't know anything at all."

He spoke with sincerity, each word filled with heartache. Whatever had happened was in the past, and perhaps it wasn't her right to know—at least for the night. It seemed to her that the wounds were still too fresh, and whatever had transpired was somehow complicated by her aunt's arrival.

"Perhaps it isn't worth much, but from what I've heard of your music, I think you're much more skilled at writing a love story with a happy ending than a tragedy."

He looked at her and smiled faintly. "I'm no good at either." He turned away and loosened the ax from the stump of wood.

Sophia saw a flash of light from the corner of her eye and turned her head. Aunt Anne stood peering out the window, her gaze trained on Erik. Head bowed, he either didn't notice or chose to ignore the ballet instructor.

When her aunt glanced at her, she offered a weak smile. Aunt Anne frowned and closed the curtain. Shaking her head, Sophia gave a frustrated sigh and faced Erik.

"What did my aunt say?"

He lifted his gaze and frowned. "Nothing. We didn't speak for many years."


	86. Melancholy

Paladin86

Erik felt drained of energy, as though he'd spent the entire day revealing his past. Yet, he felt as though he hadn't told Sophia anything at all. Everything he'd wanted to say was still lodged in his throat, while everything he couldn't tell her sat heavily in his stomach. When he'd first met her, he was fairly certain she'd give him a migraine. Now he was convinced it was going to be an ulcer.

"I don't think you understand what I'm saying," he said under his breath. "What I am…what I've been. If you did…"

You'd be gone, flying so fast from my side and never looking back, he wanted to say. Anyone with any sense at all would run from him. They always had, they always would.

"It's getting cold. If you'd like to come inside a moment, I'll make tea."

Tea didn't seem strong enough a beverage. Whiskey and scotch mixed together, if possible, seemed like the perfect elixir.

"Sophia."

She looked at him and blinked, which made him wonder if she could see him in the dark. He wanted to make her blind to him, but not to what was on the outside. She'd tolerated his physical appearance, which he'd never thought possible of another human being. But if she were to see him on the inside? That would drive her away. Looking back, it appalled him and he wished he could crawl from his skin and start over. Morosely, he realized that even a snake still lived with itself underneath. Only the surface was left behind. It wasn't enough for him.

"You've gone pale," she said under her breath. She walked toward him and lifted her hand to his face. Her fingers brushed past his cheek, then settled against his flesh. "It's so dark and quiet here. I'm not one for quiet…in case you didn't know."

She laughed at herself as her hand warmed his cheek. The way her palm fit against his face was perfect, as though she was designed to be at his side, to always be near him.

His heart ached and he hesitated to put his arms around her. She was too innocent and undeserving of his past.

"You still feel cold."

He looked down at her face but didn't answer. She'd never understand how cold he felt.

"Come with me." Her hand grasped his. "There should still be food in the kitchen. It will only take a moment for me to warm it for you..."

She squeezed his hand as though she thought it would bring him comfort. "You need a good, warm meal and a nice cup of tea. I'll sit you down and take care of you."

She offered what he longed to have, if even for only an hour more. Without argument he followed, allowed her to take his hand and lead him inside. If anything it would give him one more memory of her, one more glimpse of her face to hold forever.

That was all she would be soon enough: A memory, another shattered piece in his fractured life.

ooOoo

Citrine had returned home for the evening, which disappointed Sophia. She wanted someone to talk to and preferred Citrine's presence to her aunt's. It saddened her, this rift between Erik and Aunt Anne. As a child, Sophia had thought of her aunt as a second mother. She'd learned to sew and catch fish with her bare hands, which her mother had found utterly repulsive. But now the memories seemed distant, and the woman who had taken the guest room felt more like a stranger to Sophia than family.

From the doorway Sophia studied Erik as he sat in the armchair. Fidelio stood with his chin resting on Erik's knee. Each time he blinked, the sprigs of hair that formed his brow line twitched. She wondered if the wolfhound was aware of his comic appearance. If he was, then she was positive he was doing everything in his canine power to lighten his master's dismal mood.

"He's either completely in love with you or you spilled food on yourself," Sophia said as she walked into the parlor.

Erik glanced at her. In one heartbeat he seemed pleased to find her in the room, but in the next he looked disappointed. "I don't know."

"It was…never mind." Clearly he was in no mood for lighthearted conversation. "Do you want him to stay or should I coax him toward the door?"

"He's fine."

"It appears he's the only one." She fidgeted a moment before she tapped her foot on the ground. His mood grated on her nerves and she wondered if he was still in love with the soprano.

When he'd first expressed his feelings for this Christine, Sophia had found herself intrigued. But now that they were back inside the Manor and his mood seemed stagnant, she was worried. The heroes in her book never dwelled on their lost loves. They soldiered on and braved their futures. Why did he insist on dwelling?

As much as she wanted to ask him, she couldn't bring herself to say the words. She'd never had trouble voicing her opinions—which everyone knew. But this was entirely different. This fueled emotions in her that she didn't much care for. Jealousy, as her mother would have told her, was unbecoming of a woman.

Erik glanced at her, then the clock. "It's late. I shouldn't keep you much longer."

"Yes, it is late, but your food should be heated soon." She clasped her hands and decided to play coy and see if he would invite her to stay a while longer. "I'll bring it to you if you promise to put the dirty dish and silverware into water when you've finished."

"I'd rather have a drink than supper."

She frowned, disappointed with his answer. "Tea?"

"Bourbon."

"Half a glass?"

"Full." He looked away when he answered.

Her tongue moved along the inside of her cheek. "The perfect companion to depression," she said under her breath as she turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen. If she stayed with him it would be to make certain he didn't drink himself to death.

"Move out of my way," Erik grumbled.

She reached the kitchen door just as she felt the whole house rattle. Glancing back, she saw Erik against the wall, apparently run over by Fidelio.

"May I forgo the drink and have your company instead?" he asked as he stared at Fidelio, who wagged his tail as though he were delighted by the smashing game.

"Who are you inviting? Me or your dog?"

He looked at her sharply, which only furthered her irritation. "I meant you."

"Yet you haven't the fortitude to look me in the eye when you speak to me?"

He continued to stare at her, his lips parted. "I'll have tea instead," he answered quietly.

She shifted her weight. "This is your home. You may enjoy whatever libation you wish."

He stared at her, his gaze filled with confusion. "I have reconsidered."

"Suit yourself," she sighed.

"Sophia—"

"It's your home. You may do as you wish and your drink yourself into a stupor."

His jaw twitched. "Then return home and I'll serve myself."

Her cheeks burned but she forced herself to nod. "Enjoy the remainder of your evening."

His lips parted but he didn't speak. Exhaling, he turned away and placed his hands on his hips. "Good night," he said quietly.

Arms folded, she turned away from him and pursed her lips. It was none of her business if he had loved another woman, but it certainly felt like she should know if he still loved the singer.

"If you're still in—"

"Sophia?" her aunt called out.

She whipped around, her mouth still agape. Both of them froze, their eyes fixed on one another as her aunt's cane tapped the floor.

"Ye-yes?"

"Why are you shouting?" Aunt Anne questioned.

"I'm not shouting."

"Most certainly you are shouting. I could hear you quite clearly down the hall. Noise carries in this place." Her aunt peered into the kitchen and looked Erik over. "She needs her rest. Why do you keep her chained to the kitchen at such hours?"

"She's not chained anywhere," he said through his teeth. He glanced at Sophia, the hopelessness she'd seen in his gaze returning to his eyes. "She is free to leave whenever she would like."

Sophia felt her heart stutter. Did he want her to leave? Did he wish for the singer to take her place?

"You should be at home in bed," her aunt said sternly. "Monsieur Belmont…come with me."

"Excuse me?" Erik and Sophia said in unison.

"You, to bed. You, to the parlor. And leave that dog outside where he belongs."

"I'll take the dog with me," Sophia huffed, which didn't sound nearly as triumphant as she had hoped.

She lingered a moment, hoping someone would stop her from leaving. In silence she watched as Erik and Aunt Anne stared at one another briefly before her aunt lowered her gaze and stepped aside as though waiting for Erik to pass.

"After you, Madame," he mumbled.

Aunt Anne's only response was the tap of her cane against the floor.


	87. Unanswered Letters

A/N: Make sure your sitting down for this…

Paladin87

Erik and Madame sat in the parlor, neither of them willing to be the first to speak. He kept his gaze trained on the rug and the dog that had wandered in and plopped down before the fire with his tail brushing over Madame's shoes.

"The girl in your kitchen, she is Irish?"

"Yes." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"Typical Irish mouth," she muttered.

"I don't much care what comes out of her mouth as long as there is food on my table."

"Is that all you care about these days?"

"I beg your pardon?" he growled.

She appeared nonplussed by his thunderous tone. "In the past you wished to control each tick of the clock. Now your only concern is whether or not there is food on the table."

"Then perhaps it is boredom," he said under his breath.

With a heavy sigh, she stared at the fire. "Such a beautiful estate and you find yourself bored."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Excuse me?"

"For Christ sake, say what you will." He slammed his fist into the arm of the chair and glared at her. "From the moment you first arrived you've been dying to tell me what you honestly feel. I'll be damned if I sit here at your mercy a moment longer."

"Ah, so the Phantom does exist still. I was afraid you'd gone soft."

Angered at himself, he looked away from her. "You act as I though I owe you something."

"Do I?"

"Madame—"

"What could I possibly want from you, hmm? From the sniveling little coward of a man I found in a cage?" she asked, keeping her voice low. "Should I ask you for money? No, I could never ask you for money. They're not your funds anyhow, are they?"

His nostrils flared but he couldn't bring himself to speak. For years he'd waited for this moment, to finally know exactly how she felt about him.

"Stolen. Everything you have in your life you've stolen or attempted to steal. Your clothes, your food, your belongings…women."

He wanted to storm from the room but her words held him fast, chained him with curiosity and shame. She was correct on all but one account. He had stolen his clothing, his food, and his belongings.

"It was necessary to survive."

"For a month or two, yes, it was necessary. And then what?"

"Emerge from the shadows and beg for employment? All of Paris knew of that…that man from the traveling fair. They would have known."

"Years passed and you continued to take what wasn't yours. Tell me, Monsieur Belmont, should I request your honesty? Never. You don't know the meaning of the word. Your entire life is based on illusion, lies, and treachery."

"I never asked you to help me," he said quietly.

"No, you didn't. You'd never ask anyone to help you because no one else matters but you."

Anger boiled within him but he silently shook his head. She didn't know him or his life. She had no idea how he felt inside or what made him continue to live.

"Then who matters? Christine?"

"She made her choice."

"Yes, she wrote to me once. Said very little of how she was doing." She paused as though she wished him to beg for additional information, but he merely sat and waited for her to continue. "She did say that they were finally alone, no shadow always in pursuit."

"You make it sound sinister," he replied softly.

Fidelio rolled to his feet and moved closer to his master's side, showing his loyalty.

"Why on earth would I want to make it sound sinister? After all, you only stole her clean off a stage in the middle of Paris."

"You saw what she did to me that night!" he snapped. "A full house! Every seat filled!"

"Should I pity you?"

"What good would it do? You want nothing from me and I want nothing from you."

"Then it seems we've reached an impasse here, in this house that bores you."

"Indeed. In my parents' home. My rightful home." He stood and stared at the doorway. "Where you are not welcome."

She smiled to herself. "I suppose I'd have to be a doe-eyed, innocent dancer to have you welcome me to your home."

"You'd have to appear as though you truly wished to be in my home for me to welcome you."

"I did want to be here."

"Why? To shame Sophia?"

"I've never—"

"Hold your tongue and listen to me for once. You stepped out of your carriage and expected I owed you my gratitude. I thanked you long ago for helping me."

She shook her head and rolled her eyes, which only furthered his irritation.

"I left new shoes beneath your bed, left you candy under your pillow—"

'Before you slinked away like an alley cat."

"Did you want to see me again?" he challenged.

She sat back and folded her hands. "With the manner in which you disappeared it was like you never existed at all. I risked my life to help you. Did you ever consider that—what would have happened if someone had seen me hurrying you into the opera house?"

"I would have told them I threatened you," he answered.

"How kind of you," she sneered.

"I never once harmed you. In all the years that have passed, don't you think I would have hurt you if I truly had ill intent?"

"Physically you never harmed me, but honestly I never knew your intent, Monsieur Belmont," she huffed. "You only made your desires clear when it came to Christine."

"You sound jealous, Madame," he blurted out.

With a humorless laugh she turned away. "Jealous? Of what?"

His eyes narrowed as he sat down and tapped his knuckles on the arm of his chair. "Of Christine."

"That's utterly ridiculous."

The arrogance in her voice slipped noticeably and he kept his gaze trained on her face. At last she seemed more like the girl he had first met than the woman she had become. He recalled the first few times he'd seen her once he was situated in his new home. She giggled when he spoke, trembled when he met her eye. He knew he frightened her terribly. There was no other explanation for the way she acted when he was near.

"Madame, why did you send me here? If you truly despised me all these years, why give me this address and send me here to live?"

"I didn't do it for you."

His head turned to the side, his heart beating faster. At last, what he'd wanted to know could finally be illuminated. "Did someone…send for me?"

"Months before the incident a woman walked into rehearsals."

He winced at the title she'd given that last night. He attempted to convince himself it was better than her referring to it as "the disaster", but he knew she meant it as an insult.

"I beg your pardon?"

She ran her fingers through the end of her braid and stared at the fire. "A woman came to me, asked if I knew a man by the name of Erik. She'd read about several incidents in the newspaper…a ghost with one half of his face white, the other flesh-colored."

He sat very still as she spoke, his heart beating faster, the sound of the blood churning in his veins almost deafening.

"I told her I had never heard of a man named Erik who worked for the theater." A short pause followed her words, one that left him on edge. "She handed me a picture, unfinished. Half of a boy's face. She didn't need to say another word."

He stared at her, silently begged her to turn and face him, but she didn't move. Her features softened. He looked at her and recalled a woman who always complained of the cold and never left the hearth when the winds rattled the house.

Lips parted, he wondered what she thought of the news that the child she'd abandoned had grown into an apparition. Perhaps she expected the gypsies would keep him under lock and key for the remainder of his life and she'd have nothing to fear.

"She handed me a bundle of letters and asked me if I would give them to you."

"But you didn't," he growled.

"I gave them to you. Left them in your box the first night of Hannibal."

"I never saw them—"

"Yes, you did. They were gone shortly before the performance began. You probably discarded them."

"I was not in my box that night."

Her fingers tapped together as she realized his box had been sold for the night. He started to protest but she shook her head. "It doesn't matter now. They're committed to the ash and rubble."

His gaze lowered, his nerves on end. He desperately wanted to know what she had said. Perhaps she begged for his forgiveness. Perhaps she wished to never see him again. He wouldn't believe it was the latter—especially if she had given him this house rather than sell it.

"Where did she go?"

"She said she would wait a week for you to answer her letter."

His heart crashed to the bottom of his gut and he shook his head. He'd failed her, though he didn't know how. "Then she intended to return home?"

"I have no idea. She merely said she would remain in Paris for a week. I didn't ask where she would travel next, though I imagine it would be to one of her estates. She hasn't contacted you?"

"No. She has estates?"

"Of course. She and her husband have several horse farms."

His blood ran cold as he stared at her. "Her husband?"

"Antole Turro. One of his estates is just a stone's throw down the road. Surely you've seen it?"


	88. Thoughts in a Honey Jar

Paladin88

The news saturated his mind and left him numb. Karl Turro was supposed to have been nothing more than a cruel man who deserved death, not a family.

Erik closed his eyes and attempted to remember Karl's face, to pick apart his features and sort out what commonalities they shared in their appearance. Tall, dark hair…but there was little more he could think of that would make them brothers. He knew he wanted no part in claiming Turro as his brother.

"Do you know when she remarried?" he questioned.

Anne Giry sat forward and frowned, her features softened. "I thought you'd know by now. You've been here for months—"

"Do you know when she remarried?" he asked again, this time through his teeth.

"She didn't say a word to me and there was no husband at her side when she paid a visit to Paris." She paused and tilted her head to the side. "Though I do recall her stepson was with her. Handsome young man, but very rude. He sighed impatiently while we chatted. I didn't care for him at all."

"Karl Turro," he muttered.

"You've met him?"

He didn't answer, and in the stillness he heard the floor creak and knew Sophia listened from the hall. It angered him that she eavesdropped and yet saddened him that she was so far away.

"She seemed very nice," Anne commented.

"She was." He stood and grasped the doorframe to steady himself before he walked from the room with Fidelio at his heels.

Sophia stood at the end of the hall with her hands clasped behind her back. She frowned and shifted her weight but made no attempt to hide her presence. With no words for her, he lowered his gaze and attempted to walk past her, but she grabbed his shoulder and he paused.

Through the growing numbness, he felt her head against his shoulder and he inhaled—the first time he remembered breathing since Madame Giry had told him that his mother was now a Turro.

"Sophia," he whispered.

Her tone was gentle and reassuring as she suggested he return to his room for the evening. Madame argued with her for a moment from the doorway but Sophia ignored her aunt's words and pushed against his back until the stairs appeared before his eyes and he somehow managed to walk to the landing.

He'd killed his stepbrother. A thousand times he silently reminded himself what he'd done, yet still there was no grief and certainly no regret. There had been no other choice…or had there been? Perhaps if he had known they could have come to an accord.

"It's highly improper," Madame whispered loudly from the bottom of the stairs.

Erik was vaguely aware that Sophia had left the room. Fidelio licked his knuckles until he lifted his hand and placed it atop the dog's head. Karl Turro would have killed Sophia if he'd been allowed to live.

"A girl your age should not be in a grown man's room at this hour."

"I shall leave the door wide open."

"Babies can be created with doors left open."

"I prefer to make mine with the door shut and locked."

"Oh! Your mother is restless in her grave!"

"Aunt Anne, honestly!"

A moment later she stomped up the stairs with a full plate of cookies, a cup of tea, and a jar of honey.

"What you need to do is rest." She untied his cravat, swiftly apologized for her actions, then rebutted her wordsand helped him out of his overcoat.

He shivered as she hung up his coat and then returned to his bedside. At last the world cleared and he stared at her.

"Did you know?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Did you ever meet her?"

Hesitating, she pursed her lips and nodded. "I knew her, but not well. She was always very kind to me, but I had no idea that she lived here. I'd never seen her before she married Monsieur Turro. It never crossed my mind that she had the same name as Monsieur Turro's second wife, mostly because I only referred to her as Madame Turro."

He blinked at her, then glanced down at his opened shirt. Sophia cleared her throat and fidgeted with her hair.

"Well, now, I suppose you are capable of…well, yes."

"Did you like her?"

Sophia gently placed her hand over his. "She seemed quite pleasant." When he didn't speak, she blurted out, "now, I sincerely believe that you need your rest."

"I could stay awake until the end of time."

"Well, that's simply ridiculous." Her gaze continued to linger at his open shirt collar. "Utterly and completely…um…ridiculous to ever…think…such an…idea."

"I beg your pardon?" He glanced down to see what was wrong and when he stared at her again she had turned away, her cheeks bright red.

She tapped her fingers against his knuckles and sighed. "Yes, well, I should leave if you intend to retire for the night. No use in harassing you."

Despite her words she didn't move. Her hand gently squeezed his and she gave a dainty cough.

"I've grown fond of your harassment," he said under his breath.

"Well, that's for the best since I do seem to enjoy harassing you."

"Sophia!" Madame hollered. "What are you doing up there?"

"I've been ravaged!" she shouted. "Twice, Aunt Anne. Oh, it is simply horrible!"

He shot forward and put his hand over her mouth. "Have you lost your mind?" he snapped.

She nodded, her eyes wide and mischievous.

"Come down here at once!" her aunt ordered.

She pried his hand away and stood. "No," she shouted. "I must see if it is equally terrible the third time!"

"Sophia!" Erik and Anne said in unison.

Fidelio reared up and barked at her, clearly mistaking her shouts for a game. She shooed him down the stairs and Erik heard Madame shriek as a dog the size of a horse galloped toward her.

He smiled at the thought of the old woman scampering to safety.

"Ah, there it is," Sophia said as she reached the doorway.

He stared at her as he stood. "Excuse me?"

"A smile. It's been quite a long time since I've seen one from you." She grinned, gathered her skirts, and disappeared through the doorway.

With a sigh, he closed and locked the door and dressed for bed. The tea she had delivered had gone cold and the cookies were of no interest. His brow furrowed as he plucked the jar of honey from the tray and wondered why she'd included it.

There was no telling what was on her mind. At first she'd seemed gravely concerned, the next she appeared hungry as she stared at his neck.

He opened the jar of honey and dipped his finger inside. As he tasted the sticky sweetness, he envisioned her finger coated in it. She made him lose all sense of the world when she was on his mind at all, but the images honey had conjured threatened to keep him awake all night.

At last he set the jar down and blew out the candle. Tomorrow he would pay the Turro Estate a visit.

-o-

"You shouldn't say such things," Aunt Anne snapped as she followed Sophia into the kitchen.

Her insides were still aglow and nothing could bring her down from the little wisp of cloud she managed to cling to as she descended the stairs.

"I know," she sighed.

"Men will get ideas, which only lead to improper urges."

She glanced at her aunt before she searched the kitchen for something to occupy her mind. The stove was spotless, the counter bare. With nothing to do, she crossed her arms. "He's not like that."

"All men are the same. They're all after one thing."

"No, they're not."

"You'll have him in such a state that he won't be able to control himself."

She whipped around and sighed. "He's—"

"Then what will you do when he's worked into a frenzy and he can't stop himself? You'll thank me one day when he keeps his hands off of you."

Wicked thoughts filled her head, but rather than argue she merely turned away. It would take much more than her words to earn his hands on her, especially after the sharp and dismal turn the evening had taken.

She pushed her hair behind her ear and bit her lip. The image of his cravat tossed aside, overcoat removed, and the first two buttons undone gave her a shiver. He'd clearly had no idea why she stared at him—which she knew was on account of his face. The scars, however, only marred a fraction of the man on the outside. Now, it was a matter of understanding whether the scars on the inside could be healed.

Her heart began to race. What he hid behind his mask was of little concern. Her mind's eye continued to return lower her focus point, to his collar bone and neck. She could still see the sparse covering of chest hair. Should she have dared to wonder how far it extended? No, she told herself, but her decision did little to clear her mind.

"Sophia, are you listening to me?"

"No," she sighed. "Not at all."

Her aunt shook her head. "I know him, child."

Her frustration could no longer be contained. "Do you? Because I thought for certain that you haven't spoken to him in years."

Her aunt backed down. "I know more about him than you do. Please, you must understand that I want what's best for you."

"Then I beg you, Aunt Anne, don't harass him. It pains me to see you badger him."

"Sophia, that's quite enough."

"Yes, it is. I'm tired. Good night, Auntie. Sleep well."


	89. By the Orchard

I had a week of fun and now I'm back with a long chapter. I'm crossing my fingers that some of you will be happy about this.

Paladin89

"Goodnight, Mademoiselle, goodnight, Monsieur."

"Are you absolutely certain you don't want to sit with us for a moment longer?" Sabine offered as Gabe lingered in the doorway.

"As much as I would sincerely enjoy speaking with you, I'm afraid that I'm exhausted and would not be one for conversation."

"Very well then." She embraced him lightly and kissed him on the cheek. "Sleep well."

With a weak smile, Gabe retired for the night in the room Sabine had fixed for him. She glanced back at Philippe, who had respectfully turned away.

"If you'll excuse me, Laure always wants a warm glass of milk in the middle of the night."

He nodded once and watched her leave.

Alone, he closed his eyes and yawned, wondering if it was still late night or if had become early morning. It had been so long since he'd last seen her that he hated to excuse himself for the night.

Once she tucked her sister into bed, Sabine returned to the parlor and sat with a blanket over her knees. Philippe had no idea why she needed a blanket. With the doors closed, the warmth from the fire made Philippe constantly wipe his brow.

He studied the portrait of Monsieur Antole Turro and his first wife. They were feeble individuals, both clinging to each other. Even the painting made them look weak.

"How is your tea?" Sabine questioned for the third time since she'd sat down.

He looked at her quickly and offered a close-lipped smile. "It's fine. Thank you."

She craned her neck. "But you haven't had a sip."

"Sabine, listen to me. You shouldn't stay here."

She frowned at him. "We cannot abandon the household, not with Monsieur and Madame Turro out of the country."

Philippe clasped his hands tightly, resisting the urge to scoff. "You cannot stay in a house with no food or heat for long. Think of Laure."

"She's fine. We're together."

"Starving and freezing?"

She pursed her lips. "We've been here so long, Philippe. You must understand…Laure thinks of this as home." Her gaze lowered. "Honestly, we both do."

He inhaled deeply. "Then you do not wish to return to Belmont Manor?"

"We're both very tired. Why don't we discuss this in the morning?"

Philippe leaned back in his chair. He had grown tired of the Turro estate the moment he stepped inside.

"By morning I will return home to take care of Sophia." He paused and waited for her reaction, but she kept her head bowed. "When I assume control over the orchards, I will need someone to stay with my sister."

"I promised Madame Turro that her household would remain in order."

"There is nothing here to keep in order."

"The horses—"

"The two of you cannot care for the horses. Gabe already explained that he must take them tomorrow or the rest of them will starve to death."

"In the morning—"

"You cannot take Monsieur Turro's horses."

Frustrated, he turned away. "Then I suppose the next time I shall pay a visit it will be to dig graves."

"Don't say such terrible things, Philippe."

"There is no choice," he snapped.

She stared at him a moment. "You should concern yourself with your family," she said brusquely.

"And you should concern yourself with yours as well."

"Monsieur Turro knows everyone from Paris and back. If we abandoned his property, how would we ever find employment?"

"The orchards—"

"We could live well for a season and then what?"

"Goodnight." He stood and shoved his handkerchief into his pocket.

-o-

Erik woke in the middle of the night and stared at the ceiling. He heard Fidelio softly snoring near his feet and wondered when the dog had entered his room and jumped on the bed. Sophia must have returned the dog but not bothered to disturb him.

A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he thought of her behavior earlier in the evening. He'd have given almost anything to have seen Madame's expression when Sophia spoke of being ravished. He shouldn't have found it amusing, but it had been far too long since Sophia's playful side had shown.

His fingers grasped the quilt and he sighed, feeling a wave of frustration. With his mind restless, he placed his clasped hands on his chest and listened to the house settle. Sleeping was a lost cause, and after several moments of lying awake, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked to the window.

Sophia's windows were dark, her house quiet. He tapped his fingers on the windowsill for a moment as though he expected her to turn up the lamp. It had only been a few hours but he missed her. It felt as though the woman he had first met had returned, as gregarious as ever.

He fumbled through his room and dressed in the dark, carefully avoiding both the dog that curiously wagged his tail and the trunk at the end of the bed he could barely see in the meager moonlight.

He walked quietly down the stairs, his hands touching the hallway walls as he neared the front door. Where he would go he had no idea, but the house suddenly suffocated him and he desperately needed a walk.

Fidelio softly padded after him and he waited, knowing the wolfhound would scratch at the door and wake Madame if he was left behind. The moment the doorknob turned, the massive dog rammed the top of his head into the door and bolted into the night, running directly to Sophia's house.

Erik barely stifled a curse as he gave chase and growled for Fidelio to return to his side at once. A rabbit shot out of the bushes near Sophia's front door and zigzagged through the yard, disappearing under the fence and into the distance. Fidelio, loosing sight of his conquest, sniffed around in circles until he found bread crumbs that someone had discarded.

"You are far more trouble than you are worth," Erik grumbled as he snatched the dog's collar.

Fidelio licked his chin and gave a playful bark. With a pat to the dog's head, he stood and walked toward the orchards.

"To the fence and back," Erik said under his breath.

The night air was cool and damp, and a shiver traveled up his spine. He hadn't bothered to bring his mask or cloak, and by the time he considered the temperature he was too far from home to turn around. Collar turned up, he crossed his arms and took longer strides through the yard. He whistled for Fidelio each time to the dog wandered too far away as they neared the trees. 

Suddenly his pace slowed as they reached the orchard. Beyond the trees lay his past, his childhood. He remorsefully gazed at the fence and wondered how Karl Turro had treated his stepmother. He couldn't imagine anyone had ever welcomed Turro's company. The man was a pig-headed brute.

While Fidelio rolled in the grass, Erik leaned against the fence. He crossed his arms tightly and listened to the tree branches creaking in the wind. Goosebumps rose along his flesh and dread welled in his belly as he thought of the shallow grave where he'd buried his stepbrother.

The thought disturbed him, and as much as he attempted to wrap his thoughts around something else, he continued to see Karl's face. He wanted to know what his mother had thought of her new son, if this handsome child was the son she had always desired.

He couldn't remember her ever recoiling from him. Whenever her husband—as Erik was never permitted to call him "Father"—was near, he remembered feeling out of place. But when it was just the two of them in the overseer's house he was merely a child. It wasn't until she'd relinquished him to the gypsies that he'd felt like a monster lurking in the shadows.

"Why?" he muttered to the darkness. "Why did you reconsider?"

He thought of the jewelry box Sophia had found and he shuddered. He didn't care if she never wanted to speak to him again, but he wanted to know why she had given him to the gypsies. If she'd asked him to leave he would have done so quietly. At least he would have liked to imagine that he could have gathered his few belongings and left his home. Abandonment had crushed him.

What would she say if she knew the son she had abandoned had killed her perfect stepson? He attempted to give the face in his memory expression, a voice filled with horror and regret but he couldn't. Even if she hadn't cared for him in the end, he couldn't see her taking pride in Karl Turro. On the inside, at least, Turro was a monster. Surely she must have known.

"You are simply exhausting."

Erik stood suddenly and found himself face to face with Sophia. He blinked and shifted his weight, unsure of whether she was real or part of a dream.

"Excuse me?"

"You and your dog in the yard." She handed him his cloak and crossed her arms. "I was in the middle of a wonderful dream when I heard him rustling in the bushes. Then you yelled at him."

"I didn't yell at him."

"Well, then you spoke loudly to him."

He shrugged. "I didn't want him to wake you."

"You woke me instead. Very thoughtful." She gave him a devilish grin. "I looked out my bedroom window and saw you walking through the yard half-naked."

His eyes narrowed. The damp chill he'd felt penetrating to the bone vanished as their gazes met. He swallowed hard and then glanced away.

"You shouldn't be out here," he mumbled.

"And you should?"

"Men can tolerate the cold better than young ladies."

She giggled softly. "Yes, well, I would have returned home at once, but I doubt I could fall asleep and find my dream."

He grunted, and for a moment they were both silent.

"I haven't remembered my dreams in a long time," he said at last.

"I almost always remember what I dream. Philippe says it's because I always eat something heavy before bed, though I don't see how my stomach dictates my dreams—and I don't eat anything heavy before bed."

"How do you remember your dreams?"

She clasped her hands. "I'm not sure. I don't think about it before I go to sleep or when I wake, it just happens."

He nodded, finding himself appreciative of her company. "What did you dream?"

She looked away and giggled again. "Well, I was in the parlor and you were sitting at the piano."

Her voice trailed away and she covered her mouth. Brow furrowed, he waited several seconds for her to continue but she did little more than sigh to herself.

"And that was it?" He took a step closer and leaned against the fence.

Sophia inched closer until her shoulder touched his. "I was sitting beside you."

He forced himself to nod, wondering what exactly was worth remembering.

"You were…well…close to me." Her body pressed to his, her coy gaze meeting his.

"Like this?" His throat was so dry he could barely speak.

"Almost." She wriggled beneath his arm and settled into his warmth. Inhaling, she rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes. "There. This is better."

He sat very still, his body rigid until he grew accustomed to her sitting close to him. He spread his hand and gently caressed her shoulder, fascinated by the way she snuggled into his chest and sighed.

"I will accompany you tomorrow if you'd like," she offered.

He glanced down and brushed his lips against her soft hair. "To see your brother?" he mumbled.

Her arm reached around his back and gave him a gentle squeeze. "To be with you." She glanced up and smiled. "And to beg Philippe to return home so that he can entertain Aunt Anne, which I know he's simply dying to do."

"She loves you," he said.

Sophia lifted her head. "She has a strange way of showing her affection sometimes. I don't know what has come over her."

"It's me."

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't understand."

"Neither do I." His hands balled into fists and his jaw tightened. "I don't know why she would employ you here on my behalf. She must have known, must have feared—"

"Feared what?"

He searched her face, studied her parted lips and innocent eyes. The heat of her soft body was far too much to tolerate and he leaned closer, consumed by her presence. He wanted to kiss her on the mouth, but at the last moment he lifted his chin and kissed her forehead. Disappointed, he closed his eyes and released a soft sigh.

"Yes, I do suppose she would fear that you'd kiss my forehead," Sophia said with a nervous laugh. She glanced up, her gaze trained on his lips. "And I think she might go into hysterics now."

Before he could question her, she leaned into his chest and kissed him full on the lips.

"She'd be furious," he murmured.

He felt her smile as he kissed her back.


	90. More than a Kiss

Get out the fireworks. And go over to my website and vote, people! Pictures of the giveaways and where you can vote are under the Introducing Erika Kire page.

NDBRs: Slight changes.

Paladin90

Sophia lost herself in his tender kiss. One moment he had gently pressed his lips to hers, the next his fingers were in her hair, brushing strands from her face as he kissed her cheek and then her throat.

His aggression left her breathless and waiting for more. A soft moan escaped her lips as he found a tender spot on her neck and lingered, his tongue tasting her. Goosebumps rose along her arms and she shivered in delight of his finding. Never before had she realized how sensitive her flesh was or how her insides tightened at the warmth of his soft, moist lips.

Everything she'd feared about Karl Turro she wanted to feel from Erik. It excited her, this feeling of total freedom and complete surrender.

Eyes closed, she grasped his arm and inhaled his masculine scent. She'd almost forgotten the light scent of pine that melded with the smell of ink on his fingers.

His hand awkwardly brushed against her breast and she inhaled sharply, surprised by the current that traveled through her body.

"Have I hurt you?" he questioned suddenly.

She shook her head and blinked at him. "Quite the opposite, I think," she answered. She swiftly looked away and felt her cheeks burn.

"I…um…I"

"If I am not allowed to apologize, then neither are you," she teased.

"Of course."

With a nervous smile he ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her again, just as gently as he had the first time. A surge of energy traveled through her nerves and heated her blood. She couldn't remember ever feeling so completely terrified—yet enjoying each moment.

She closed her eyes and kissed him back until she felt the fever rise between their bodies, blocking out the cold spring night. He wrapped his arms around her and his tongue gently prodded her lips. Another soft groan escaped and lingered between them, and after a moment she wasn't sure if the sound had come from her mouth or his.

"Sophia," he whispered.

He kissed her cheek, his nose rubbing against hers. He grasped her tighter, crushed her breasts to his chest and parted her lips with his tongue.

Suddenly she was overwhelmed with the most delicious sensation of falling into his arms. And then, when it was too late, she realized that she was falling—directly off the fence.

With a yelp they tumbled over the low fence, their arms tangled around one another. He managed to twist enough so that she fell on top of him, her hair splashing over her shoulders to drape over his face and eyes.

"My God."

"I've hurt you."

"No, honestly you broke my fall. But I thought for certain that I'd murdered you."

"No, no you haven't," he coughed.

"I've crushed your lungs, at the least," she panted.

He blew air through his mouth and she saw his expression of complete mortification. "Your elbow is against my ribs, but you've hardly crushed my lungs."

She moved her elbow but made no attempt to sit up, mostly because he still held her tightly. A smile crossed her lips and she chuckled to herself.

"Shall I try again?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"To crush you. Perhaps if we fall from one of these trees we'll successfully kill each other."

He chuckled to himself and tilted his chin toward his chest. With a grimace he rubbed the back of his head.

"Are you bleeding?" She wrung her hands.

"No, I'm fine."

"I'm afraid you never suffered so much until you met me," she grinned, still mortified by their situation.

His expression sobered and he traced her jaw with his fingertips. "That isn't true at all."

"It was merely a joke. But honestly, if you think about it, I've broken glass on you and made you cut your hand. You came down with a fever the night I'd gone missing…"

"Sophia."

"I always thought I was a boring girl. Now I wish that was true."

"Listen to me." He paused and searched her face. His fingertip grazed her lips and made her smile. "I think I stopped suffering the day I met you."

Before she could speak, he kissed her nose and held her closer, pressing her cheek to the good half of his face.

"From the day I first stepped foot in Paris, my life became a living hell. One day I will…" he paused and she felt him tense. "It's not important now. At least not tonight."

He kissed her neck softly and breathed in her scent. "But now, when I see you, I feel as though I've been given a chance I don't deserve."

She wrapped her arms around him and sighed. "You deserve more than you give yourself credit for."

She gazed down at him in the darkness, barely able to make out his features. She imagined what he would look like in broad daylight, resting in the sun-warmed grass with his hands behind his head and his long legs stretched out. She could picture herself reclined in the grass with her hand on his chest as she listened to him breathe.

Without thinking she placed her hand on his cheek. He started to pull away but she kissed him and smiled against his lips.

"You make me feel safe," she whispered. "Unafraid of the dark."

"I feel comfortable in darkness," he replied.

"And I've always enjoyed the daytime."

He frowned at her, then looked away as she caressed his cheek. "You don't need to—"

"I want to. Unless it hurts you."

His eyes closed, his lips pressed tightly together. "I worry for you."

"I have my aunt and my brother to worry about me," she said, kissing him again. "I don't want you to worry."

His breathing turned harsh and he kissed her again, harder than before. A sigh escaped her lips as his hand brushed against her breast again and sent a wave of heat through her body. She wriggled beneath him, urgently seeking his touch.

His name emerged, a soft whisper on her lips and he held her tighter, his hands running down her spine. Suddenly his thigh was between hers, rubbing against her in a way she'd never felt before. At first she wanted to press against him, but she had no idea what would happen and it frightened her.

"Oh," she gasped.

He immediately loosened his grasp. "Sophia?"

"Oh, my. I—I think it's quite late now."

"Yes. Quite late," he reluctantly agreed.

"We don't want to get too carried away and…and improper. Do we?"

He swallowed and cleared his throat. "No. No, we don't."

As much as she wanted to enjoy the night with him, her good senses returned and she sat upright. Once she tugged him upright he captured her hand in his and brushed his thumb over her knuckles, which returned a spark to her insides and made her heart skip a beat.

"We should return," she suggested. "Auntie is probably waiting outside my bedroom door counting the minutes."

He helped her to stand and kissed her again on the lips. He pulled her cloak tightly around her shoulders and rubbed her back, drawing her close in a warm embrace.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"For being a gentleman."

He took her by the hand but didn't reply, and together they climbed over the fence. Once they reached the narrow path, Sophia heard a horse gallop up the driveway. She froze, her hand tightly squeezing his.

"Oh, no. It's Philippe," she whispered.


	91. Frustration

NDBRs: A couple of small changes. Thanks to Lizzy for her suggestions.

Paladin91

"Oh," Sophia gasped. "Oh, this is bad. This is very, very, terribly…bad."

She dug her fingers into Erik's upper arm and pulled him behind a tree.

"Wait here," he whispered. "I'll speak with him first."

"No!" Her grasp tightened and she stared up at him with her eyes wide and fearful. "I'll wait until he's in bed and then return to my room. He won't notice I was gone."

Erik furrowed his brow. "What if he decides to say goodnight and you're not in your room?"

Sophia bit her lip. "He won't…will he? Do you think he will?"

"He's your brother," he sighed.

"Former brother once he discovers this."

"But we haven't done anything," he protested. If he was to be crucified for taking a stroll with Sophia there had better damned well been a good reason, he thought to himself.

"Yes, but he won't ask questions. He'll murder me well before he asks questions."

Together they watched Philippe stroll out of the stable and trudge home. He appeared bent and tired to Erik, who couldn't understand why Philippe had returned home late in the night.

"Why do you think he's come home now?" he whispered.

Sophia shook her head. "Maybe he's worried."

Philippe was almost to the front of the house when Fidelio howled and galloped down the hillside. Seemingly unaware of his size, he reared up and hit Philippe square in the chest with his front paws.

A barrage of curses left Philippe's lips as he pushed the dog down. "You muddy, filthy, uncivilized beast! What in the hell are you doing out here?"

Sophia ducked behind Erik. "Oh, I think I might pass out."

He awkwardly reached around and patted her back but stayed his ground. After everything that had occurred, Philippe had no right to criticize him. As far as Erik was concerned, he'd proven himself already.

Erik heard a door open and close, followed by the sound of someone whistling. A moment later Citrine scuffed along the path and rubbed her eyes.

"You're quiet as a mouse, Philippe."

"Get this damned dog away from me!" he snapped.

Erik grabbed Sophia by the arm and pulled her to his side. "There. Go ahead of me."

"What? No!" she whispered loudly.

"Tell your brother the dog escaped," he whispered back.

"You tell him. He won't believe me."

With an exasperated sigh, Erik walked down the hillside first with Sophia following. Philippe, completely embroiled in his one-way argument, never glanced in his direction. He appeared fit to be tied as he continued to push the excited dog away and yell at Citrine, who stood with her arms crossed and a look of utter boredom on her face.

"It's the middle of the night and this damned dog is out attacking people. Why is he out? Who is responsible for this…this…indecent beast?"

"Tell his owner, not me," Citrine said when Philippe paused to take a breath.

"His owner is probably sound asleep in bed, oblivious to—" He waved his arms in the air and nearly clipped Erik on the chin.

Citrine cleared her throat and nodded in Erik's direction. "He looks awake to me," she said before she walked away. "Breakfast in two hours," she shouted over her shoulder.

Philippe started to protest, but Fidelio jumped up and licked him on the lips. Spitting onto the ground, he'd worked himself into an incoherent frenzy by the time he turned toward Erik.

"You must learn to control this dog," he said through his teeth.

Erik felt Sophia pressed against his back. He wanted to reach around and pull her into his grasp, but she was holding onto the back of his overcoat in an attempt to hide from her brother.

"He roams about like…like…like some wild beast!" Philippe continued. "If you don't watch him, I'll make certain there's no dog to watch."

"Oh, Philippe!" Sophia scolded.

Erik startled at the sound of her voice. He felt her push out from under his arm as she confronted her brother.

"He merely wants to greet you. Besides, he's not your dog."

She nudged Erik in the ribs as though she expected him to protest, but he was occupied with studying the way she stood.

"Hmm?" he grunted once she turned to face him.

"Did you hear what he said?" She scoffed at him when he didn't readily answer and then took the dog by the collar. "Poor Fidelio," she cooed. "These mean, terrible men ignoring my sweet little boy."

Philippe glanced from Erik to Sophia. "Why are you awake?"

She shook her head and took to cowering behind Erik again.

"Keep that dog away from me!" Philippe stormed home, still shooing Fidelio away until Erik called the dog back.

For a moment longer, Erik and Sophia stood in the middle of the yard while the dog sniffed at the door as though he expected for Philippe to return.

With a sigh she turned to him and frowned. "I should go inside."

He nodded, unsure of what had happened. The tenderness he'd felt with her in the orchard had soured, and as much as he wanted to recreate it, he knew she was wary of her brother.

"Goodnight?" she offered.

"Goodnight," he replied.

She pressed her hand to his chest and gave him a soft peck on the cheek before she jogged home, waved, and disappeared through the front door.

He shifted his weight, frustration coursing through his veins. It felt as though she'd left him partially filled, and as much as he wanted to convince himself that it should have been better than emptiness, he craved more.

With Christine there had been longing, but with Sophia there was a deep sense of arousal. Every second he was near her wasn't long enough, each touch satisfying yet only the beginning of a bigger, better moment he blindly sought.

Now alone, he felt as though he stood on the brink of hell. While Fidelio impatiently waited for his master, Erik took a deep breath and licked his lips. He still tasted her, still remembered the feel of her body against his. Memory would never be enough. He wanted more.

-o-

"Where is Sabine?" Sophia questioned as she stood in the doorway and watched her brother violently fluff his pillow.

"She won't leave."

"Oh," she said, discovering she had nothing of merit to add.

"Indeed. There is nothing for her in that damned house but she won't leave."

"Did you ask—?"

"Of course I asked! I insisted and she ignored me."

"Did you ask nicely or did you yell at her?"

"What do you think?"

"Judging from your current mood—"

"Why aren't you in bed? It's the middle of the night, for God's sake."

"You're awake," she said with an innocent shrug.

Philippe combed his fingers through his hair and exhaled. "I want to help her and her sister."

"That's very admirable."

"But she won't listen to reason. Why won't she listen to reason?"

Sophia thought a moment, knowing that Philippe wouldn't listen to reason, either. He'd stomp around for a while, huff and puff, and eventually flop down and sulk. It would still be a while before he descended into sulking, and she wasn't sure if she could stay awake to offer her sympathy.

"I honestly don't know," she said at last. "Perhaps you've done enough and need to allow her to make her own decision."

"Quit patronizing me!"

"Well, you asked me a question and I thought I'd answer."

He flopped down on his bed—a sure sign he was losing the battle and starting to wear out. She wrung her hands, uncertain if she should speak or not.

"Neither one of them should be there! It could be months before Monsieur and Madame Turro return from their holiday."

"They intend to stay until the Turros have returned?"

Philippe made no reply. He frowned and punched his pillow again, then tore off his cravat and tossed it on the floor. The last time Sophia had seen him in such a sour mood was when he'd been rejected by a little red-haired vixen named Natalia.

"Why did you decide to return home in the middle of the night?"

His reply was a grunt.

"Ah, I understand perfectly now," she replied.

"Do you find pleasure in my irritation?"

"Of course not. But honestly, I think you're acting juvenile. She's a grown woman and can decide for herself what's best."

"No, she cannot. She's making a terrible decision."

"You merely want to decide on her behalf."

"And what if I do?" he challenged. "I clearly know better than Sabine and I'm in a much sounder state of mind."

Sophia rolled her eyes. "Clearly."

"Why are you being sardonic?"

"Never mind. Goodnight, Philippe."

He sat up, apparently alarmed that he was losing his audience. "Where are you going?"

"To bed. You already made the decision for me. You wouldn't want a woman to disobey your orders when you're clearly of sounder mind, would you?"

"This isn't amusing, Sophia."

"Oh, Philippe. You're worked up over this and I don't understand why."

"I'll be glad when Aunt Anne is here. Then I'll have someone else to look over you," he grumbled.

"She's already here."

"She is?"

"Yes, and she arrived in a mood similar to yours." With that she closed his bedroom door and returned to her room where she stared at the ceiling until morning.


	92. Bourbon

Paladin92

Philippe rummaged through his liquor cabinet and found nothing of interest. He sighed heavily, shut the door, and considered his options. He'd worked himself into sleepless irritation, which meant he could either read for a while or search for bourbon in Monsieur Belmont's home.

"Hell," he said under his breath as he reached for his overcoat. He glanced down the hall and saw that Sophia's door was closed. She'd played no part in his anger but he didn't want to see her until morning, especially after she'd been so curt with him. As with all women, he expected she would hold his outburst over his head until he was in his grave.

Once he stepped outside he saw the guest room light still on and furrowed his brow, wondering why his aunt was awake at such an hour. He winced, hoping she hadn't overheard him threatening the dog. She reminded him far too much of his mother, and the last person he wanted to confront before he had a stiff drink was his mother.

All he wanted was to sit back, relax, and relieve the tension he'd felt building since the moment he'd sat down with Sabine. What he wouldn't give to shake sense into that stubborn woman.

He grasped the doorknob and took a deep breath. "Please, for my sake, be asleep in your master's room," he said under his breath.

He opened the front door and found Aunt Anne waiting for him with her arms crossed.

"I would like to speak with you," she said.

He managed to refrain from sighing but knew his expression gave away his feelings. "Regarding?"

"Regarding your sister and her well-being."

His mouth opened and closed. He wondered if Sophia had told Aunt Anne of the incident with Karl Turro.

"There is nothing to discuss. I've done everything within my power to keep her happy," he answered as he walked past her and into the parlor where he knew the liquor cabinet was filled with scotch, gin, and bourbon. Monsieur Belmont drank only wine, and he indulged in that sparingly. Someone ought to enjoy it, he thought.

"Have you done everything?"

His hands clenched and he stood with his back to her, deciding it was better to pour himself a drink than answer outright.

"I didn't know," he muttered under his breath.

Aunt Anne made no reply. He poured himself a full glass of bourbon and drank most of it in one gulp. Heat pulsed through his veins but did nothing to improve his mood.

"If I had known," he continued. "I would have killed him."

"Excuse me?"

He refilled his glass and turned to face her. "What happened here I blame on myself, not Sophia. She should have never been placed in such an unpleasant situation." Other words to describe what Turro had done came to mind, but he couldn't bring himself to speak them in front of a lady.

"What happened?"

Philippe furrowed his brow, wondering exactly what Sophia had said. "Monsieur Turro…"

"Who?"

"Excuse me?"

"Who is Monsieur Turro?"

Philippe rubbed his forehead. "The bastard who attempted to abduct her."

His aunt gasped and placed her hand over her heart. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He took another sip and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's in the past now. Sophia wishes to forget it."

"Thank the good lord you were here for her. Oh, Philippe, your mother would be so proud of you for everything you've done for that girl."

He frowned, uncertain of whether he truly did hate himself or if the alcohol made him believe that he was a terrible and worthless brother. "I wasn't here for her."

Aunt Anne's lips parted. "Oh, no, was she…"

"Monsieur Belmont found her before it was too late," he blurted out. He stared at the rim of his glass and nodded. "He saved her…he saved her life, I think. If Turro had…" He couldn't bring himself to say, much less think, of what could have happened. "…She would not have survived past spring. It would have killed her spirit."

For a long while they stood in silence. Philippe wondered if he had betrayed his sister by informing their aunt, or if he had done what was right. He'd wanted his aunt to be near Sophia, knowing what she needed was another woman she could relate to since he couldn't provide for her in that way. But he'd forgotten how gruff his aunt could be, especially when she was worried. With her city in ruins, he hadn't considered that she would travel to the estate and want to govern everyone and everything—just as she did with the dancers.

"Is that why she is fond of Erik?" Aunt Anne blurted out.

Philippe studied her a moment. "She was fond of him before that," he answered. A smile touched the corners of his mouth as he realized how much happier she'd been since she started her piano lessons. Why hadn't he noticed before?

"Hmm."

He rolled his eyes. "What am I supposed to make of a 'hmm', Auntie?"

She shook her head. "I did not send her here to become a mistress," she answered.

He crossed his arms. "Do you honestly believe I would stand by and allow my own sister to become some man's…pleasure?"

"She is obviously no longer a child. She may be cunning."

He took another sip and stifled his frustration. "You have nothing to fear. Monsieur Belmont expressed that he wishes to release Sophia from employment."

"Because of her eye? How terrible."

He shook his head. "Her vision has nothing to do with his decision."

"He's merely tossing the two of you onto the street?"

"Hardly. I will take control of the orchards." At least he hoped the offer still stood, considering he'd threatened that precious, damned dog. "And when I am his partner, Sophia will no longer have duties in his household."

His aunt appeared undaunted and he wondered what she was searching for. The effects of alcohol suddenly made his eyes heavy and he yawned, needing sleep more than answers.

"And then what happens to Sophia?"

Philippe shrugged. Perhaps in the morning he would regret his words, but for the moment they felt right.

"That will be up to Sophia."

"She needs someone to care for her. Once she has lost her vision completely she will be unable to live alone. You must tell her to consider this, Philippe."

"She has not complained of her vision worsening."

"She's a prideful girl. She'll never ask for help."

"I understand that completely. However, I would be able to tell if she could no longer see, and she still has her sight."

She shrugged and Philippe knew there would be no convincing her. For whatever reason she had assumed the worst and no one would tell her otherwise.

"I assure you she will be in good hands." He returned the bottle to the cabinet and sighed.

"What if those hands—"

"Sleep well."


	93. Unexpected Return

Paladin93

A large crash startled Erik awake and sent Fidelio scrambling from the bed to investigate. With a muffled _wuff_, the dog hit the doorknob with his paws and nudged the door open until he could escape.

"Oh, shit."

If there was any chance of falling asleep again it was ruined the moment he heard Citrine curse under her breath. He reluctantly sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes as he heard her sweeping what sounded like shards of glass across the floor.

"You and your meddlesome paws have no business in my kitchen. Scram, you giant bag of fleas."

"What was that?" Madame Giry questioned.

"It's the way I like to start each day," Citrine replied. "Coffee is in the parlor, Madame." There was a long pause followed by the kitchen door opening and closing. "Madame Giry, may I introduce you to Rene Monteclaire's son, Gabriel? He is the horsemaster's son."

"I prefer Gabe," his deep, male voice corrected. "How do you do?"

"Very well, thank you."

Erik raised an eyebrow and unbuttoned his nightshirt. He yawned and scratched his stomach, hoping she had started her day in higher spirits than she'd ended with the previous evening.

"Philippe has spoken highly of you, Madame."

"Oh?" Madame questioned. Erik didn't quite believe Gabe's words, either.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I must tend to the horses."

"No breakfast?" Citrine asked. "You could pick out your eggs from amongst the broken glass."

"I promised Monsieur Turro that I would return to feed and water them after I saw to our stock. He cannot care for all of those animals on his own, and with his son having left for India…"

"India?" Citrine sounded frightened.

"That's what his father said. Apparently he'd mentioned that he planned to spend time in the East before his parents took their holiday in Egypt. It isn't the first time he's left without saying a word."

"Is this Antole Turro?" Madame questioned.

Erik sat very still and listened, wondering what had recently transpired. He wasn't sure if he should be angry or relieved.

"Why, yes. I hoped to inform your nephew that the Turros had returned from holiday, but he decided to sleep in his own bed last night rather than share the guest room with me."

Erik stood and pulled the wardrobe door open. He wrestled a shirt from the hanger, then fumbled to button it correctly. If Antole Turro had returned, then his wife must have also been close at hand.

With one hasty look in the mirror, he put on his mask and walked through the door.

In the hallway Sophia shrieked and tipped back. He grabbed her by the arm and steadied her before she reeled backward down the stairs.

"Well, here we are again," she said with a nervous laugh. She looked into his eyes and smiled. "Good morning."

He held her close even though she was in no longer in danger of falling. "Good morning."

"You look as though you've hardly slept at all."

"I'm fine." The end of her braid touched the back of his hand and he smiled.

"May I ask where you are off to in such a hurry?"

"Gabe said the Turros have returned."

He heard the kitchen door open and close and knew Gabe had already left. If he didn't follow at once he'd be forced to seek out Rene and request that the older man saddle a horse or prepare a carriage.

"Oh." Sophia pressed her hand to his chest. The single word and the breath that followed stopped the air in his lungs. He gazed down at her and saw her innocently blink at him. He should have excused himself, but there was no denying her. "What will you do?"

He ushered her into his room, leaving the door wide open. Though he preferred his privacy, he assumed it gave her aunt little reason to fetch Philippe.

"Pay them a visit," he answered at last.

"Today?" She still clung to him as though she would fall. As ridiculous as it was, he enjoyed protecting her even if there was no threat.

"Soon."

She stepped closer. Apprehension gave way to arousal and he nuzzled her ear. He wondered if she had any idea what she did to him—and if he had the same effect on her. Whereas his desire was becoming obvious, she was a torturous enigma. He wrapped his arms around her.

"Ah." She giggled to herself.

He stiffened. "What is so amusing?"

Lifting onto her toes, she brought her lips so close to his that he almost kissed her. Almost. Playfully she dropped down again and sighed. "Nothing."

His jaw clenched. She threatened to drive him mad with little more than a denied kiss. As much as it frustrated him, he wanted more. He pulled her closer and heard her gasp. With a laugh she turned her face away.

"Are you certain?"

She wriggled in his arms. "I cannot speak when you threaten to suffocate me."

His grasp loosened as he waited for her to lift her chin. He swallowed hard, deciding he would not allow her to deny him twice. Playfully he exhaled through his mouth and watched a strand of hair blow across her cheek.

"Better?" he questioned. His lips brushed against her forehead. "I would never intend to harm you."

Her smile widened, her fingers gently caressing his shoulder. "A little."

"Tilt your head up so that I may be certain."

She stifled another laugh. "You don't find me trustworthy?"

"Sophia," he warned.

"Yes?" She hid her eyes but he felt her body tremble as a giggle escaped.

"Look at me."

She lifted her chin and smiled. The twinkle in her eyes made her all the more mischievous and he wrapped his arms tightly around her and kissed her softly. He tasted toothpowder on his tongue and wondered how long she'd been awake. Long enough to clean her teeth, at least.

At once she melted in his grasp, her hands at his back. His appetite to taste more of her than he was allowed roared to life. He no longer cared if the door was wide open or that he could hear Madame Giry and Citrine speaking.

"Now you seem to be in a better mood," she sighed once she broke away from his kiss.

"I wasn't in a bad mood."

"No, but you didn't seem happy either." Another smile flashed across her face. "But now that I'm here," she teased. "The clouds have parted and the sun is shining."

"Of course," he replied dryly. He looked down at her oval face, his heart filled with an indescribable feelings. Freedom, he thought to himself. With a smile and her playfulness, she had unlocked him from an otherwise dismal existence.

"You are in a mood. Neither good nor bad, but a mood."

"Pardon me?" He already knew what she meant, already felt it in each pulse of blood through his veins. Years, decades, of carefully contained emotion spilled out from every pore. He felt no need, no desire to hide from her emotionally.

"What has come over you, hmm?" Her eyes narrowed.

"You have."

She laughed again until he kissed her. For one brief moment she lost herself in his arms, but then Fidelio yelped and Citrine ordered him out of the kitchen and the moment was lost. As her cheeks turned crimson, Sophia cleared her throat. She didn't pull away from him but her demeanor had changed, and the playful young woman appeared slightly more straight-laced.

"Will you travel alone?" she questioned suddenly.

Their eyes met and he noticed the concern in her gaze. He'd completely forgotten the original topic of their conversation.

He shrugged. "I suppose."

"You're not interested in company?" She blinked innocently.

"I would imagine your brother will accompany me."

Her shoulders dropped and she frowned. "You could always ask…"

He turned away from her and smiled inwardly, thinking it was only fair to drive her mad as well. "Do you think Citrine would care to travel with me?"

She slapped him on the arm. "Oh, listen to you!" she grumbled.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm surprised you didn't suggest Fidelio, too."

"Honestly it never crossed my mind." Before she could hit him again he took a step back and held out his hand in surrender. "Until you mentioned it now. In which case, I prefer your company to his."

She crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow. The stern expression on her face completely changed the way she looked to him, but she couldn't hold it for long. "Because I shed less?"

Unexpectedly, he smirked. "I never said that."

She allowed him to walk toward her but stopped him short of a kiss.

"Breakfast first?" she questioned.

Food would not satisfy his hunger.

"If you wish," he replied.

She looked at him curiously before her fingers moved to the top button of his shirt and pushed it through the hole. She did the same to the second one and he felt a rush of cool air against his skin. He exhaled hard, a half-growl of desire.

"You're buttoned all wrong," she said. Her hands lingered against his chest, a tentative promise he was certain she wouldn't fulfill. Not now. Not yet.

She turned and walked to the door, glancing over her shoulder. "I'll see you at the table."

With a sly smile, she left him completely speechless.


	94. Worth

Thanks for your patience while I've been updating my original stories.

Paladin94

Sophia burst through the front door, kicked it shut with her foot, and bounced around the yard in glee that had threatened to make her burst. She had no idea where the bubble of energy had emerged. It was merely there, waiting to be discovered.

No. She continued to bounce around, a smile spread across her face and her eyes tightly closed. She knew precisely where it had come from. The thought left her suspended, completely oblivious to the world around her as she danced about.

"Are you completely mad or merely possessed by a rabbit?"

Philippe's harsh tone instantly stopped her dance of joy. She swung her arms back and forth until she recovered her breath and her senses.

"Oh."

He could barely contain his smile of amusement, which surprised her. "Oh, indeed. What in the world are you doing out here?"

"Nothing." She clasped her hands behind her back. _Besides enjoying the weather, the taste of a kiss, and the memory of a man whose voice captivates me._ "Nothing at all."

His eyes narrowed. "I suppose I would be overjoyed to be away from Aunties glare as well," he said under his breath. A smile tugged at his lips. It had been such a long time since they'd share a wicked thought, but in an instant she was reminded of a boy who would steal a pie from the window and deliver it behind the barn where they would both stuff themselves.

"I haven't seen her this morning."

"How fortunate."

He seemed more agitated than playful now and she frowned.

"I shall avoid her for the remainder of the day. If you wouldn't mind."

"Running away with Citrine?" He crossed his arms. His expression was unreadable, which worried her. The glimpse of playfulness she had seen was gone. Once again he was her stern older brother, a man who knew exactly what was appropriate for her and all other women in the world. Pig-headed fool, she thought.

"No." She drew out the word as though it would buy her time.

Realization flashed across his face and his lips thinned. He didn't need to say a word. She knew exactly what he was thinking, how threatened he felt to lose control of her.

"Sophia."

"Would you care to join us?" She attempted to keep her voice light but knew it was soaked in regret.

He looked mildly surprised by her invitation. "Where do you intend to travel?"

She looked at him with curiosity. He seemed hurt that she had begrudgingly offered him a place in their carriage but he didn't argue or press.

"The Turro Estate," she answered.

His lips parted. "Why on earth—"

"Please, don't ask me." Her hands clenched and relaxed. "There is someone…you should ask Monsieur Belmont for yourself."

Well, _that _certainly wouldn't lessen any speculation. She silently berated herself and pursed her lips.

"I see." He remained outwardly cool. "And what time do you intend to pay a visit?"

"I have no idea."

She half expected him to ask if she knew anything at all. Instead he nodded and gave a barely noticeable shrug.

"Perhaps I will join you if there is time."

He turned and walked away, seemingly frustrated by their conversation. She couldn't tell if he had given her permission to ride with Monsieur Belmont or if his words meant that he would not go and neither would she.

-o-

The door slammed shut and Erik nearly jumped out of his skin. He dropped his pen, which caught on his pant leg and stained the brown wool black. With a sigh of aggravation he turned from the piano.

"Monsieur."

"My apologies," Philippe said. "The wind must have slammed the door."

He made no reply and twisted around, scribbling notes on the paper before they were forgotten. It had been a long time since he'd felt compelled to write music, and in the stillness of the house—which had seemed like a rarity as of late—he couldn't deny his muse.

"I understand that you and my sister have planned a…journey."

Erik's brow furrowed but he didn't turn to face Philippe. The formality of his butler's words gave him pause and he wondered why he hadn't called her Sophia. His sister sounded unduly harsh and impersonal.

"Journey?" He kept his back to Philippe and jotted down additional notes merely to preoccupy himself.

"To the Turro Estate."

"Hardly a journey," he said under his breath.

Philippe didn't make a sound and Erik paused, wondering if he'd left or if he stood over him with a knife in hand. He turned and found Philippe staring intently at him.

"The two of you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The two of you will travel together."

"I had intended to travel alone."

Philippe's jaw twitched. "I see." He took a step forward. "May I ask why you intend to pay a visit to Monsieur Turro's estate?"

"No," he answered flatly.

Philippe's nostrils flared and he swallowed hard. "It is best to leave well enough alone, Monsieur."

Erik nodded, realizing Philippe's concerns. "Their son's holiday to India has nothing to do with my desire to visit the Turros. If you care to travel, I would like to discuss with you how you intend to run my property."

Philippe's expression softened but his posture remained rigid. Looking at him made Erik uncomfortable.

"I shall run it however you desire, of course."

Erik gathered his papers and stood. "If it were run the way I desired all the trees would most certainly die. I am not one to tend trees and fruit." He glanced at his hands. "My passion is music."

"A fine passion."

_Better than my sister_, he half-expected Philippe to say. Instead he offered a thin-lipped smile.

"I have no musical appreciation. To me it is noise, to you a masterpiece."

"And to me an apple is an apple, a grape is a grape."

"Precisely. I respect your talents." Philippe appeared somewhat relieved. "But if you would care to discuss your property and the finer details…"

"I would like to be aware of what you will do and when. And, by the end of this week, I expect to see record books of previous years and what profits can be expected."

"Of course. I shall have everything sorted out and delivered to your room tomorrow morning."

at what time do you expect to have your carriage brought around?"

Immediately, he thought to himself. He wanted to see her face, if only from a distance. Then it struck him that perhaps it would be better if they remained at a distance. His shoulders hunched, his teeth gritted together.

"I have not yet decided." His stomach tightened with uncertainty. "Later in the day."

"Very well, Monsieur. I apologize for the interruption."

-o-

Philippe walked from the parlor and slapped his hand against his forehead. He hadn't said a word of what singed his mind. All of the questions he'd started with remained unasked and unanswered.

"What do you intend to do with my sister?" Or, more importantly, what have you done to her that she's hoping about like a mad rabbit?

He knew what the smile on her face meant. Or what it could have meant. Damn it, it better not have meant what he thought. Frustration ebbed, then threatened to overflow. It had little to do with Monsieur Belmont. It could have been any man and he would have been fraught with aggravation.

He wanted to see his sister happy. When he thought she would marry Karl Turro he could easily see himself close to her side. Karl would be constantly away on business. Unsavory business, he thought bitterly. But still, he would be needed, he thought. She would still need him, much as their parents had needed him.

But now she wouldn't need him. Years of caring for his younger sister and dying parents, then nearly two years of keeping Sophia safe while they were alone—and then him vowing to her that she would always stay with him, no matter what happened to her sight.

He stared at the wall. She didn't need him to help her and Sabine had denied his help, which stung worse than anything else he could remember. He'd wanted to tie her up like some barbarian, fling her over his shoulder, and march her to safety. Precisely where the danger emerged he didn't know. He could deliver food to her door and fuel for the house and she could remain there without much inconvenience. But leaving her inconvenienced him from seeing her daily.

The frown on his face settled deeper. Perhaps Sophia had never really needed him and perhaps Sabine had never wanted him to offer to rescue her. Where was his place? What were his duties?

He needed a way to occupy himself. He was exactly like his aunt in that manner and the notion grated his nerves. She was old and bothersome. He was younger and still bothersome.

He wanted to see Sophia happy. But he didn't want to face the loneliness of his own life. He wanted to hate her for it, for occupying the time in which he could have spent courting, flirting, enticing women. Not that he was old, at least in terms of numbers.

Thirty wasn't ancient. True, he was no longer a young man of eighteen who considered every woman he passed as a possible rendezvous. He'd settled, calmed. Or allowed the years to slip away. The lines no longer seemed clear between a decision he wanted to make and what was made for him. He'd governed Sophia's life, never his own.

"The trees need me," he whispered bitterly. Cold, uncaring, yet reliable trees in an orchard that had yet to bloom. Not even the trees needed him.

He turned and found Erik in the doorway, silently watching him. He had no idea if his employer had stared for quite some time or if he'd merely reached the door in the same heartbeat that Philippe had cared to turn.

Without a word he stormed past. Angered, frustrated, and pitying only one person. Himself.


	95. Reflection

If you're not in love with Belmont yet I think this'll do the trick…

Rave, this one's for you.

Paladin95

The house was stifling. While everyone else went about their day, Erik cracked open his bedroom window and rubbed his forehead. His stomach was in knots.

With a frown, he stood in the place he loathed most: Before a mirror. He'd changed clothes three times before he finally decided on a dark brown overcoat and matching brocade waistcoat. He slipped his hands into soft leather gloves and stood back.

Imperfect.

He tugged at his sleeves and smoothed his fingers down the length of each arm. Frustrated, he looked at his reflection once more, despite knowing it would make little difference. Perfectly tailored to fit his long legs and slim waist, his trousers had nothing to do with his flawed appearance. His dress shirt matched his measurements, his waistcoat and overcoat impeccable. Even the gloves enveloped his hands like a second skin.

But it was all imperfect.

He turned away from the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair. One last article of clothing and he would be complete, yet incomplete.

"Don't you look beautiful this afternoon." Citrine's voice stopped his hand inches above his mask.

"This old thing?" Sophia said with a laugh.

"Old? It looks like you've never worn it before."

"A time or two."

He craned his neck and glanced through the curtains to see them walking across the yard toward Sophia and Philippe's house. A breath hitched in his throat as he caught sight of Sophia in a blue dress with matching bonnet. Her hair was pulled back in a silver clip, and when she turned to the side he took notice of her crimson cheeks and shapely profile.

"Your brother won't like that neckline."

"My brother wouldn't be happy unless I was wearing a burlap sack." She clutched a beaded reticule in her hands and hugged it to her body, which made her appear stiff as a board.

"Nervous?" Citrine questioned.

"Why should I be nervous?"

Citrine gave a little shrug. "You're running away together."

"Oh, hush."

"Afraid Philippe will hear me?"

"No…" She raked her fingers through the end of her hair and sighed. "I'm merely going to support Monsieur Belmont in his endeavor."

"Ah. Silly me, thinking you've dressed up to impress him."

Both of them jumped as the front door to the Dupree residence opened and Philippe stormed out. He glanced at his pocket watch and scrunched his shoulders several times.

"Well?" He pulled at his cravat.

"You have such a way with words, Monsieur," Citrine replied.

"Where is Gabe?" Philippe asked.

"He's preparing the carriage."

"It's nearly three."

"What time are you supposed to leave?"

"A quarter after the hour."

"Then he has twenty-five minutes until he's due to bring the coach around. Would you like a brandy? Perhaps it will help you regain your patience. I do believe it's a virtue you've never had."

Philippe checked his watch again before he started to pace. "Where is he?"

Sophia caught him by the arm. "Calm down. You're driving me mad."

"What is all of this about? They believe he's in India. Why disrupt them?"

"Philippe, perhaps you should remain here."

He glared at her. "Absolutely not." He paused beneath the open window and grabbed hold of the white gate. Head bowed, he grumbled to himself. "I know precisely what will happen the moment he shuts the door."

Sophia crossed her arms. She turned toward the window, and Erik found himself disappointed that she covered her breasts. He leaned farther forward and studied her, noticing the way she smoothed her hands down her hips.

After years of seeing dancers with their flat chests and slim, unshapely hips, he marveled at Sophia's figure.

"Then take a deep breath and settle yourself, Philippe. Really, I don't know what has you upset. Did breakfast disagree with you?"

"Breakfast is the least of my worries."

Erik stepped away from the window and exhaled, wondering what had placed Philippe in such a foul mood. Not that he was naturally pleasant, but he was more high-strung than usual, which even Erik had noticed. He hadn't seen Philippe since he'd stormed out of the house earlier in the day when his butler had been caught mumbling to himself outside of the parlor.

"A pleasant afternoon," Erik muttered.

With one final look in the mirror, he donned his mask. It took all of his strength to ease his arms and legs, drop his shoulders and relax his back. When he was no longer standing rigid enough to be a corpse, he turned away from the mirror and descended the stairs.

Anne Giry was waiting for him in the hall as she gazed at a rather oversized and garish painting. He paused, his hand strangling the banister.

"Madame," he said stiffly.

"This painting is drab," she concluded without glancing in his direction. "Dark and cluttered."

He looked it over once but couldn't bring himself to agree or disagree. He'd never been fond of still life paintings or chrysanthemums, which meant he walked past it every day without so much as a second glance. "It was on the wall when I arrived."

She grunted and turned to face him. "You're so quiet. I thought you'd left already."

"Soon," he replied, glancing past her at the front door.

She took a step forward and blocked his path. "To meet her?"

With a curt nod, he glanced down and fidgeted with his cufflinks. Trepidation made it impossible for him to grasp the tiny pins, which angered him. He had no reason to be worried or anxious. She should have been worried, not him. He hadn't left her. He hadn't abandoned her in a crowd full of unfamiliar people.

"Perhaps you should write her a note first," Madame suggested.

"I've grown tired of writing notes," he answered. He paused, waiting for her to add a snide comment to her otherwise pleasant conversation.

Instead she nodded and pursed her lips. "They returned home today?"

"This morning."

"Do you suppose they're settled in by now?"

"I shall see for myself," he snapped.

She studied him briefly, her gaze more scrutinizing than his own as he studied the reflection in the mirror. "Best of luck to you," she said quietly.

Lips parted, he stared at her, uncertain of whether or not she was being sincere. "Why?" he asked suddenly. "Why would you say that?"

His words seemed to surprise her. "I've always wanted what was best for you, though you never seemed to attain it."

"Excuse me?"

She sighed. "Of course you wouldn't have seen it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Monsieur, you've always been preoccupied with—"

"You came into my home acting as though I owed you the world and now you want me to believe you've wanted the best for me?"

"Keep your voice down!"

He gritted his teeth and heard his pulse drum through his ears. "In my house I will do as I please."

"Very well." Her shoulders dropped and she tilted her head. "Let's hope this is a new beginning where you discover fresh possibilities…or look at people in a different light and see how much they've always cared for you."

"Such as yourself?"

"I've always…been fond of you. But of course, why would you acknowledge that coming from me when you had designs on Mademoiselle Daae?"

His brow furrowed, anger escalated, but she walked away before he could question her.

-o-

Sophia convinced herself that Philippe was upset over Sabine. It was the only logical explanation for him to huff and stomp around the yard—a dramatic display if ever there was one. Once he shrugged off her attempt at soothing him she turned away and wandered to a large, leafless maple tree as she continued to rake her hand through her hair.

She was giddy with butterflies fluttering through her belly. Sympathy butterflies, she said to herself, hatching on Erik's behalf. Her romantic mind envisioned the perfect scenario: A reunion of joy and understanding.

Suddenly the butterflies dropped like lead bullets. From what she understood he hadn't seen her since he was a small child. Perhaps she wouldn't want to see him. Sophia wrung her hands, realizing she had no idea why a mother would abandon her child.

Clearly her brother's sullen mood had rubbed off on her. She shook her head as though it would clear the thoughts. Taking a breath, she turned in time to see Erik stroll through the front door.

He squinted as the light hit his green eyes. Fidelio bounded up from the stable, his deep bark echoing across the yard. With a firm "sit", the dog obeyed the command, though Sophia was certain his tail would propel him off the ground.

"Here, my precious bag of fleas," Citrine cooed. She waved a bone in the air and tossed it across the yard when he came bounding toward her.

Sophia walked up to Erik and offered a smile. "You survived another day spent with my aunt."

"Barely," he replied under his breath.

He seemed distracted, which worried her. "You look quite handsome," she said lightly. "The brown suit compliments your eyes."

He looked her over and returned a nervous smile. "You look as you always do."

Her mirth faded and she nearly dropped her reticule. Two hours of standing before her wardrobe had earned her nothing in return. She may as well have donned a burlap sack.

"Oh. Well…"

"You look perfect."

The butterflies returned for a completely different reason and she covered her mouth with her gloved hand. "Th-thank you," she said with a giggle.

Philippe cleared his throat and garnered their attention. "Shall we?"

With Gabe in the driver's seat, he opened the carriage door and motioned for Sophia to enter first. She glanced back and saw Erik staring at the open door.

"Come on," she said gently, fearing he would change his mind.


	96. A Memory of What Was

Paladin96

Sophia sighed heavily for the second time and waited for either Erik or Philippe to react but neither of them turned their heads. Ten minutes of complete silence was starting to make her nervous. The landscape didn't interest her—though apparently it was the most fascinating thing her male counterparts had ever seen. They avoided her gaze and each other's presence by staring out opposite windows.

"I love spring," she said.

Philippe grunted.

"All of the birds chirping and the flowers in full bloom."

Erik glanced at her and nodded before he turned and stared out the window again.

She frowned and pulled at her gloves. "And the baby chicks are running around the yard and then Citrine walks out, grabs one, and chops of its head."

Philippe turned and stared at her with his mouth wide open. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, if no one else intends to speak…"

Again, neither of them replied.

"Oh, for God's sake. I think I'd prefer to be in the company of a corpse on the way to the cemetery." She uncrossed her ankles and accidentally kicked Erik's foot, which garnered his attention.

He looked her in the eye, his gaze filled with apprehension. "How far are we?"

"From the Turro Estate?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I'd say another ten minutes, perhaps," Philippe answered. He arched his back and stifled a yawn. "Fifteen with the way Gabe's driving."

"Tell him to turn around," Erik muttered.

Sophia's eyes widened. "Turn around?"

"And return to your estate?" Philippe asked.

"Tell him to turn around," Erik said again. He gripped the cushion and sat forward.

"But we're almost there," Sophia said.

"About halfway," Philippe corrected. "Are you certain, Monsieur?"

"Yes, yes, tell him to turn around. Now."

Sophia's shoulders hunched at the sound of his voice. She started to reach out and offer what little comfort she could provide but she felt her brother staring at her extended hand.

"But, Monsieur," she started. "I thought—"

"I've reconsidered," he muttered.

Philippe's eyes narrowed. "Reconsidered what, may I ask?"

"You may not."

"You do not intend to tell them what happened to…_him_…do you?" Philippe asked.

Erik shook his head. He stared out the window, his gaze briefly capturing each tree they passed. "I said tell him to turn around."

"We're almost there," Sophia wasn't sure if Erik heard her. He had the look of a caged animal that didn't know what fate held in store and wanted to escape. "Don't you want to at least see her? You wouldn't have to leave the carriage."

"You want to see Madame Turro? Whatever for?"

Sophia pursed her lips and wanted to kick herself for needing the silence filled. "Never mind, Philippe."

The carriage traveled faster down the road, its wheels hitting what felt like every rock and crevice. Philippe shifted and looked from her to his employer.

"You tempt fate. After everything that happened, you shouldn't want anything to do with these people. If they ever discover what happened, no matter how right it seems in our eyes, they will have both of us sent to the gallows on behalf of their son's death. Justice, Monsieur, to the highest bidder."

"Philippe," Sophia warned.

Erik pounded on the carriage door. "Stop!" he growled. "Stop at once!"

The carriage slowed. Sophia caught sight of a cherry tree outside of her window and knew they had paused directly before the gates. Her heart dropped into her shoes and she closed her eyes.

"Good day, Monsieur Turro," she heard Gabe shout.

"Good day," Monsieur Turro answered. "Who do you have there with you, Monsieur Monteclair?"

Sophia bit her knuckles and listened to Erik's heavy breathing.

"Come now, Anatole, I'm starving and I've barely seen the inside of my own home."

Her eyes popped open to the sound of a woman's voice. She stared at Erik, who had sat with his back pressed against the dark velvet cushion. She couldn't tell for certain in the meager light, but she could have sworn he'd gone pale.

"I have my employer," Gabe answered. "And Monsieur and Mademoiselle Dupree."

"Your employer?" Monsieur Turro questioned. "I thought you worked for your father."

Erik's gaze darted around, his hands alternately clenching and relaxing.

"We're working for Monsieur Erik Belmont," Gabe answered.

There could have been silence for an eternity and Sophia wouldn't have noticed. She continued to stare at Erik, who looked more hopeless than ever. His lips trembled with unspoken words, his brow furrowed as though he were in pain.

"Belmont?" Madame Turro questioned, her voice low. "There is someone living in that manor now?

"Yes, Madame. Only since this winter."

"Why don't you have them come inside?" Madame Turro said. "I'm sure Sabine won't mind making another pot of coffee."

The carriage lurched forward. At last Sophia breathed.

-o-

She sounded exactly like he remembered: Calm and pleasant, a voice that exuded tenderness. He couldn't decide if he wanted to fling open the door and see her or demand that Gabe turn around and return home.

But now she knew he was there, on her property, and there was no turning back. He knew she would remember him. His cynical thoughts reminded him he possessed an unforgettable face.

_"I will not tell you twice, Erik. Stay close. No wandering off."_

He turned from the window and glanced at Sophia, who stared back at him with her lips pursed and her hands clasped. She looked as terrified as he felt and he wondered what had made her so nervous.

"I haven't seen Monsieur and Madame Turro in almost a year. When was the last time you saw them, Philippe?"

"Months ago," he mumbled. "Midsummer."

"You know Madame Turro makes the best blackberry jam I've ever tasted," Sophia said. "Which of course I know you remember quite well because you ate the entire jar by yourself."

Philippe opened his mouth to speak and then turned away. "Am I the only person who has no idea why we are here?"

Erik and Sophia exchanges glances before the carriage came to a halt and they felt the cab gently rock as Gabe left the driver's seat.

_"Yes, there will be many people. Remember how we watched them carry the tents?"_

"What do you intend to do?" Philippe questioned softly.

"Speak with Madame…" Erik paused and swallowed, deciding no matter what she called herself she would never be Madame Turro.

Gabe opened the carriage door and painfully bright light entered the dark interior. For a moment he paused, old memories flicking through his thoughts.

_Stay close._

He saw her kind eyes and her youthful face, remembered the way her dimples deepened when she laughed.

_I will not tell you twice._

His head swirled much as it did when she'd grabbed him by the wrists and swung him around in circles until he thought for certain he could fly.

_Absolutely no wandering off. We're not at home any more._

If only she would let him go.

And then she had let him go, and instead of flying he had sunk five floors beneath the earth's surface.

"Here, Monsieur, may I be of assistance?" A leather-clad hand extended into the cab and Erik grabbed Sophia and pulled her forward. She glanced back at him, her eyes wide, but she didn't voice her protest.

With only a glance Erik told Philippe to exit next. He still needed a moment despite knowing there were not enough minutes in the day to properly compose himself.

"Monsieur Belmont?"

At last he moved forward and stared out the cab door at the small crowd gathered around. There, standing with her arm around Sophia, was a woman whose face bore more wrinkles and whose hair was threaded with more silver than he had expected.

They stared at one another briefly. Erik felt his heart lodge in his throat as he waited for her to address him—her guest. Her son.

A hand grasped his arm and before he could turn Monsieur Turro clapped him hard on the back. "It's far too cold to stand out here all day." Another hard clap to the spine and Erik nearly lost his balance. "We've just returned with food and wine. It seems our son was in quite a rush to explore India."

The old man ushered him toward the open doorway, his footsteps short and choppy. Erik glanced over and saw the rail thin girl on Monsieur Turro's arm, and realized she was guiding the old man indoors.

"I owe you many thanks for saving my horses." Turro stared straight ahead, his eyes unfocused and unblinking. "I shall have my wife draft a check at once."

"There is no need," he said at last, surprised he'd found his voice.

"Then I shall find another way to repay you, Monsieur Belmont."


	97. Separation

I posted the wrong chapter for Paladin Chapter 96, so you might want to go back and reread it. It's a little bit longer than the chapter I posted on mistake.

Paladin97

They walked stiffly into the house with Erik and Monsieur Turro at the lead, Sophia and Madame Turro tittering behind, and Philippe slowly, cautiously dragging himself behind the rest.

Sophia looked back at him once and gave him a look that needed no words. It said he was being difficult, stubborn, and unnecessary.

He gritted his teeth, the awkwardness of the situation seeping into his bones. They should not have been in this damnable house. There was nothing to discuss, no need to be friendly with the neighbors—especially after what had transpired.

His palms perspired and he squeezed his hands into fists. How did one accept the tea and graciousness of the Turros when knowing full well that their son was not in India? He was buried, and Philippe was more than willing to stay on his knees for an eternity and beg God to resurrect the bastard so he could kill him again in a way he deserved.

They reached the parlor where Sabine appeared with Laure on her heels. The older girl looked at him with calm indifference, which irritated him further. A week he'd spent at her side, never leaving her unless absolutely necessary. She'd smiled and blushed, told him he didn't need to worry about her so much, that she appreciated his concern but feared he'd become ill. One week of their knees almost touching, of their eyes meeting in long gazes, but bodies kept respectfully apart.

By the sound of her voice and the look in her eye he thought for certain she saw him as a suitor, but then by accident he'd brushed his hand against her arm, and instead of an apology he offered a smile. Instantly she'd excused herself and walked away. She had not looked him in the eye after that moment. Physically he had repulsed her.

"Good afternoon, mademoiselle," he greeted Sabine, giving her the formality of a stranger. He didn't bother to look her in the eye. If she wanted distance, then so be it.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur Dupree."

Her formality knifed through him. What had he done?

"You look well."

She smoothed her hand over her abdomen. "Coffee, sir?"

"No." He wanted nothing from her…yet he wanted everything.

"Hello, Monsieur Philippe," Laure cooed. She batted her eyes at him and gave her sister a noticeable kick in the back of the leg. "How are you?"

_Sick, uncomfortable, completely worthless to everyone in this room, and blinder than Monsieur Turro…_

"I am well, thank you."

Philippe awkwardly turned away from the two and took his seat beside Sophia. He looked around the room before his gaze briefly settled on Monsieur Belmont, who was staring intently at Madame Turro.

Philippe's eyes narrowed. Madame Turro had no idea her guest was memorizing her face. She was talking to Sophia about her dress and how lovely it was—a conversation that didn't interest him in the least.

Yet Monsieur Belmont continued to stare, his lips slightly parted, his posture stiff.

"Monsieur Belmont," Philippe said rather loudly. He realized he had nothing to say now that he had his employer's attention. "Do you need more coffee?"

"Have I hired another servant?" Monsieur Turro asked lightly. "Where is Sabine?"

"Here, sir." She stood behind the old man. "Monsieur Belmont's cup is still full, sir."

Philippe gritted his teeth. "My apologies."

"That is unnecessary, Monsieur," Sabine concluded.

She smoothed her hand over her stomach again.

-o-

She watched him from the corner of her eye but didn't have the gall to face him directly or acknowledge his presence. Anger, resentment, sickening fascination…regret…he didn't know what to feel as they were all equally strong inside of him.

What he expected from her he didn't know, but he knew for certain he hadn't expected this coldness. No, he knew exactly what he'd expected: Acknowledgement that he was in her home. That he had taken the home she offered to him.

"You do look simply beautiful, Sophia. I do imagine that every boy you meet is leaving a calling card at the door."

"Oh, Madame."

"Honestly."

"Well then, they must lose their way. After all, the roads do look the same."

Madame Turro—his mother—clasped Sophia's hand in hers. "You underestimate yourself, my dear."

Sophia met Erik's gaze and she smiled weakly. "We needn't speak of me all afternoon, Madame. You've simply embarrassed me." She gave an exaggerated shiver.

"Are you chilled, my dear?" Madame Turro questioned.

"Angelica, is she cold?" Monsieur Turro questioned. He squeezed Erik's wrist. "It is a bit damp in here, wouldn't you say?"

He turned toward the old man. "Yes," he answered, though he wasn't certain if he meant the air was frigid or the hosts.

Sabine dutifully walked toward the hearth but Sophia jumped up. "Why, it must weigh more than you and your sister combined. Here, we have two strong men in our presence. Surely one of them will assist." She shot her brother a look and he stood.

"Allow me."

Sabine politely smiled and stepped aside while Philippe bent and hefted the firewood into the hearth. He grabbed the poker and rearranged the logs while Sabine crossed her arms and looked on. At her side, Laure beamed and gave Sophia an appreciative grin.

"Monsieur Belmont," Sophia said. Her formality made him turn at once. "Would you be so kind as to retrieve more firewood?"

"He doesn't know where it's kept," Philippe said over his shoulder. "But I cut it and I—"

"No, he doesn't know where it's kept," Sophia interrupted.

She pursed her lips, which Erik assumed was for effect, and gave a light, feminine sigh of contemplation. She was bluffing. He could almost see the plans drawn out in her eyes. "Madame Turro, you would not mind showing him, would you? Unless, of course, Monsieur Turro disapproves?"

"My wife has a will of her own," the old man laughed.

Erik's heart came to a crashing halt. He stood, clenched his hands, and trained his gaze on the doors. Being the head of the household, she would most likely send Laure or Sabine. Now it was a matter of waiting to see if she'd face him or merely wave a hand in his direction.

"Of course." His gaze shot to her face and saw her expression. Warm, gentle…friendly. He blinked in order to clear his mind of expectations yet the smile remained. "It would be a pleasure, Monsieur Belmont."

He looked to Sophia, who had turned to place one hand on her brother's shoulder and the other on Sabine. Satisfied with her work, she tittered with laughter and set to remedy a different situation.

"This way, Monsieur Belmont."

Erik followed Angelica, his footsteps light and soundless on the dark blue woolen carpet.

"I prefer Erik," he said.

She closed the parlor doors and looked up, which struck him as odd. He'd always looked up at her.

"Erik," she said. The single word rolled off her tongue as it had so many times before.

_Erik, are you listening? Erik, please help me, will you? Erik, you will get us both in trouble with your giggling. Oh, Erik, how I adore you…_

"You are much taller now," she said quietly.

He made no reply, deciding he merely wanted to hear her voice and see her face one time. One last time.

She reached out and smoothed his lapel even though it was unnecessary. Or perhaps it was necessary for her, for him, for both of them. Her touch froze him, the familiarity of her presence leaving him speechless—but with dozens of unanswered questions.

Their eyes met and she weakly smiled. "How have you been? Well?"

He wanted to lie to her but instead he looked away and shook his head. He'd been miserable, physically and emotionally beaten, sustained his life on sewer water and half-rotted food, battled rats for a place to live…to exist. And then at last, when he felt he'd recovered and could emerge into the society that had rejected him, he'd met Christine. And now he was exiled to the place of his birth.

"I have not been well," he answered at last, biting off his words. "Your charity is unnecessary, Madame."

"I do not offer charity." Her hand pressed harder to his chest.

"You do not wish to acknowledge me—"

"I didn't know how to acknowledge you. How does one….after so many years?"

"If you would rather I leave, tell me. I shall leave," he responded bitterly.

"I looked for you," she whispered.

His breath caught in his throat, remembering the note left in his box—the note he'd never seen. "Madame Giry—"

"No, before that. On…that day. With the fair."

He stared at the top of the head, wanted to grab her by the chin and force her to meet his eye. Instead, he waited with unusual patience.

"When you left me?"

Her gaze met his and he saw in her eyes all of the pain he'd felt for years: Shared, magnified beyond comprehension. Tears flooded her gaze and her lips trembled.

"I didn't leave you."

Could she lie to his face? Cold stabbed at his heart.

"I remember."

"We were separated," she blurted out. Her fingers clasped his lapel and tugged him closer. "Separated. I didn't leave you. I lost you."

He heard someone exhale and realized it had come from his own body. He wasn't sure why it brought him a sense of relief.

"Come with me, away from the door," she insisted. Her fingers skimmed down his arm and took his hand.

"Why?"

She looked up at him, smiled softly, her eyes clouded with memory. "Stubborn as ever, I see."

Her words made his feet move and he followed her down the hall to a cold. Drafty storage room where firewood was piled on the floor.

"I would never have abandoned you," she said with her back to him. "And I am ashamed that is how you have thought of me." Her voice trembled with emotion and she sniffled.

"Then…what happened?" he questioned.

She frowned and wiped the tears away. "It was raining and my gloves were soaked. There were people all around us and I was nervous…for you. But you didn't notice. At least I don't think you noticed. You were…mesmerized. I released your hand, only for a moment…and you were gone."

He remembered.


	98. Wet Gloves

A/N: This is probably the longest chapter I've written for Paladin and it's all from Angelica's point of view. The italics signify a flashback. Fingers crossed that it all makes sense!

Paladin98

He was no longer a child. No matter how many birthdays had passed, no matter how many years she looked out the window at the first snowfall and remembered how he sat, captivated by the sight, on her newly set dining room table, she expected to still see a little boy walk up to her one day.

Now there was a man before her, standing well over six feet tall. No hint of the child she had raised existed in his gaze. His eyes harbored only anger—toward her.

Angelica allowed her hand to remain on his chest. His heartbeat faintly pulsed against her palm, reminded her of the life she'd missed all these years.

"It was horrible," she whispered.

_There was not supposed to be a faire. At the beginning of summer she'd promised him that if there was a faire to pass through in October they would attend. Sure enough, he'd perched himself in a tree and waited hours at a time. _

_"Mother!" he yelled as he ran into the house._

_Her favorite vase slid out of her fingers and crashed onto the floor. The sound didn't startle him as much as it startled her. She jumped over the mess to meet him in the doorway._

_"What is it this time? An elephant in the orchard?"_

_"Don't be absurd, Mother."_

_She smiled and crossed her arms as he stood before her, nearly bursting with news. He'd never understood her attempts at humor. He'd inherited his father's serious nature. _

_"Blue, red, yellow, green, and orange." His voice trembled with delight._

_"You saw a peacock?"_

_His brow furrowed. "Mother…"_

_"Fine, fine. Then what?"_

_"The Faire! Just as I knew it would come! It passed by here no more than an hour ago."_

_Her heart plummeted. "How lovely," she whispered. "How wonderful, Erik."_

_"Mother," he said. "You promised."_

_And she had. She'd looked him in the eye and shook his hand. If there was a faire in October she would wear her favorite dress and matching bonnet and they would attend, the way all mothers accompanied their children for a lovely Tuesday afternoon. _

_"Yes, I did promise. I keep my promises, Erik."_

"You were thrilled," she whispered. She glanced up and watched him briefly as he listened, longing for her reasons. "And I was thrilled for you."

"Where did you go?"

_For weeks she'd told him in her most strict voice possible that he was to stay by her side. He was growing too old for her to watch over every moment of every day; they both knew it was true. She allowed him as much freedom as she thought he could tolerate without finding himself in too much trouble. _

_"It will just be the two of us," she reminded him. "You may drive the horses if you wish."_

_"Would a gentleman drive?"_

_"For a lady? Why, yes, he would." _

_He grinned as he sat across from her at the dinner table. It made her heart both swell and break when she looked into his eyes. Such beautiful, honest eyes he had…it was a shame no one would ever look into his face and see what she knew existed. _

_Still, she trained him to be a gentleman. She groomed him despite always assuming he'd live a life of bachelorhood. Manners would keep him in check and prevent him from feeling bitter isolation. It would be enough for him. _

_No, that wasn't at all true. In her heart she held out hope for him, refused to imagine her only child alone. How could everyone deny such a bright and charming young man? Damn the scars, damn what was on the outside! He was worthy of a good life, of happiness from more than his mother's fondness. _

_"Did Father ever drive the horses for you?"_

_"Eat all of your vegetables. And do not put a dash of salt on them, Erik. It insults me when you must flavor your food."_

_He frowned, but she wasn't certain if he was put off by his unanswered question or because the salt out of his reach. _

_"What would you like to see first?"_

"Everything," her adult son murmured.

Angelica nodded. "Yes, you remember."

My God, he remembered. She wasn't sure if the past, if his anger, would distort what had happened.

"Do you remember where we went first?"

"To look at the baskets and crafts."

_He dragged his feet, wanting to see the ventriloquist singing rather than the boring crafts. But, since it was her day as well, Angelica insisted they take their time to look at everything. That way he would fully appreciate it—that way she could make him feel like a normal child being forced to do the mundane, just like the rest of the boys._

_"Isn't this pretty?"_

_"Yes," he mumbled._

_He didn't bother to look in her direction. His attention was held firmly by a boy his age pointing at him in horror._

_Angelica grabbed Erik by the arm. "Will you pay attention?" she snapped._

_"He's staring," Erik mumbled._

_"Let him stare."_

_"At…at me."_

_"What do you think of this one?" She plucked a small glass bird from the table and showed it to him._

_"Will you tell him not to stare at me?"_

_She refused to allow someone's ignorant child to make him fearful. Shoulders squared, she looked him in the eye._

_"I will not ask anyone to ignore you. But I will demand you listen to me."_

Erik roughly grabbed her by the wrist and she gasped in surprise of how powerful he'd become. His face had gone white, the darkness in his eyes turning a familiar pale green. For the first time since she'd seen him step onto her property, he looked like her son, not a stranger.

"It was raining," he said softly, his grasp loosening. "I told you I didn't like the way your gloves felt."

Her eyes filled with tears. It was their last conversation until now and she was terrified—not of him, not of speaking to him—but of someone overhearing their conversation. No matter what Sabine and Laure said, she still feared Karl was near. He'd often said he'd be gone for several hours while in truth he eavesdropped on his father.

But she didn't want to think of that hateful man. She was tired of being worried and afraid, helpless in her own home.

"I shouldn't have complained," Erik said softly.

She shook her head. "It wasn't your fault, Erik." Her lips trembled. It had been so long since she'd said his name aloud and she never expected to say it again—especially to his face. "That terrible child had already made you uncomfortable. The least I could do was give you a warm hand to hold."_  
_

_"I'm hungry."_

_"Oh, you're always hungry." She glanced back at the tents they passed, almost certain an olive-skinned man had been following them since the moment they'd arrived. _

_"And your hand feels cold."_

_"Because my hand is cold," she muttered, her patience waning. She glanced back again and saw a large figure swallowed by the crowd. A shiver ran up her spine. _

_"And it makes my hand cold."_

_She chuckled softly and smiled at him. Black hair plastered to his forehead, green eyes filled with annoyance, he was always at his worst when his stomach was empty. At least hunger made him temporarily forget the boy who'd gawked at him._

_"You have no patience, Erik."_

_"And I cannot feel my arm. Mother, please."_

_"No. I told you not to wander off, didn't I?"_

_"I didn't wander off! Honestly!"_

_"You were not at my side when I turned to see if you liked the basket, were you?" Her heart thudded in her chest. With so many people in such close proximity she feared someone would hurt him far worse than verbally. All of the glares, all of the snickers, all of the mothers who hid their children behind their backs as though her son would leap out and attack them…each passing second made her regret her decision. She should have told him she'd reconsidered. It would have been easier to break his heart once and deny him than force him into a public spectacle. _

_"Fine, fine. I won't argue."_

_"I'm telling you the truth."_

_"Do you know how dangerous it is for children to wander away from their parents? I am doing this for you, Erik. Remember that. Do as I say."_

_"I will. I swear I will, Mother. Please…don't make me return home."_

_His voice broke and he pursed his lips. Wet, cold, and hungry, she'd dragged him through the faire for two hours and now she insisted on losing her temper with him. It was bad enough he never saw anyone save for his mother and the occasional maid or servant brave enough to travel across the property to stay within the overseer's house. She could at least remember how important this was to him, to his psyche. _

_He only wanted to be a normal child, to do what other boys and girls did with their mothers and fathers._

_"I won't make you return home. Now, what do you—?"_

_Two older boys ran into them and nearly knocked Angelica into the mud. She clung to Erik's hand, barely keeping her balance. Her wet hat dripped rain into her eyes and she exhaled in frustration._

_"What would you like to eat?"_

_"May I have anything I want?" His eyes lit up. _

_"Within reason." Her hat slipped off her head and plopped to the mud. With an exaggerated sigh she released Erik's hand and pulled off her gloves. "My fingers ache from the—"_

_A horn blared, followed by the surprised gasps and screams of faire patrons. The crowd churned, her hat was pounded into the mud, and in the blink of an eye she stood alone._

_"Erik?" she whispered. Her gaze darted from one face to the next. "Erik?"_

_A hand pushed against her back, another at her shoulder. She turned in a full circle, hat and gloves forgotten. He was there! He had been standing right there!_

_"Erik, come here at once."_

_Her hands trembled. Pockets of space opened up in the crowd and instantly disappeared. He was right there, she told herself. And now he was gone._

_"Somebody help me!" she screamed. "My son! Help me! My son!"_

Her lungs ached and she gasped for air. She stared at his chest as tears freely ran down her cheeks. Every night when she said her prayers she thought of that moment, wondered what would have happened if she'd looked left rather than right, if she'd found a constable first rather than a common man walking with his wife. Precious seconds were lost to panic.

"They allowed me to search all of the tents one by one," she whispered. "But you weren't there. I refused to leave the faire until all of the tents were packed away and the performers were leaving for their next stop. I wanted to follow them—to look for you—but I couldn't."

She still couldn't tell him or admit to herself what had kept her at home. Some things were better off forgotten.

"I wasn't there," he replied.

His voice was stronger, angrier than hers. She couldn't bear to look at his face and see his rage.

"I was on horseback," he said.

"You…when?"

"When you turned away, he grabbed me by the arm." His gaze was cast down, his shoulders hunched. "He gave me something to drink, and when I refused, he pinched my nose and forced me to drink it. I could still hear him speaking, but I couldn't see him and I couldn't move."

"Drugged," she whispered.

"He put me on a horse and placed a burlap sack over my head. He said it was what I deserved."

They had taken him immediately.

Her hand clapped over her mouth. "Where?"

"Paris… there was a cage waiting."

The parlor door opened and startled both of them. Angelica swiftly turned away and wiped her eyes. His words were jumbled in her head, though one word was clearer than the rest: Cage. Another shiver ran up her spine, and despite how many times she wiped her eyes, the tears returned.

"Monsieur Turro would like his wife to return," Monsieur Dupree announced.

"One moment," she said in the strongest voice she could muster. She looked up at Erik and saw the calm that had settled in his eyes. She wasn't sure if he'd found peace in her words or if he was prepared for her to reject him.

Monsieur Dupree looked past her at the empty hall and she followed his gaze. "Shall I retrieve the firewood, Madame?"

"I'll do it," Erik answered. His hand brushed her shoulder and she reached up to touch his fingers. It surprised her when she discovered they were far longer than her own.

Her spine straightened, fear diminished. She no longer cared who heard her speak. Nothing would keep her from claiming him as her child, not even the threat of Karl slinking through the house. She'd lost far too many years with her only child to allow Karl to further dictate her life.

"That is very kind of you to offer, Philippe, but I'm not done speaking with my son," she answered proudly.


	99. Lost Trust

Paladin99

Philippe quietly shut the parlor door and stared at the rich oak wood briefly, attempting to comprehend what had happened.

"Did you find Madame Turro?" Monsieur Turro questioned.

"Yes." Philippe forced himself to turn and face the old man. "She is speaking with your guest."

Monsieur Turro chuckled, his milky white eyes blinking rapidly. "Ah, well, as long as they don't run away together." His shoulders and pot belly jiggled when he spoke.

"Shall I apply your eye drops while you wait, Monsieur?" Sabine offered.

"Oh, I'd rather not stand now, dearie. Later."

"But Madame said—"

"Oh, they are my eyes, dearie." He chuckled again, a nervous laugh that reminded Philippe of the way Antole acted when his son was near. He'd never realized before that Antole had been nervous around his only child. For years Philippe had believed it was due to his advanced age: Antole had not fathered a child until he was forty-five, and from what little Karl had said, his father was more concerned with his finances than with his family. Now he wasn't sure if he should have believed Karl, the man he'd foolishly entrusted with his sister's well-being.

"Ten more minutes," Sabine replied sternly.

Laure gave a wide-eyed gasp. "You had better listen, Monsieur Turro. She has _the tone_."

Sophia giggled to herself and met her brother's eyes. Philippe continued to stare at her, wishing to God he could ask her just what in the hell was going on in the hallway. If anyone knew, it was Sophia. He wasn't sure if he should reprimand her for keeping a secret or congratulate her for holding her tongue.

"It is very quiet. Is something amiss?"

"No, no." Sophia stepped forward. "Tell me, Monsieur, did you have a nice holiday?"

Philippe half-listened while Antole gave a long-winded account of their travels to London and the south of France, where they'd unexpectedly spent a week near the sea. Philippe thought about what Madame Turro had said, but was unable to grasp the concept. He'd never known she had a son—other than Karl, who was not hers by blood. He'd known she was married to Pierre Legasse Belmont, but Monsieur Belmont died without children and left his estate to his wife, who had been out of the country for several years. Or so his father had told him. Philippe had never really believed that a woman would leave her husband for seven years in order to care for orphans and feed the hungry. Perhaps it was all an elaborate tale devised to mask her infidelity.

He looked to Sophia again but she wouldn't meet his eye. The sooner they returned home, the better.

-o-

"I thought…" Erik paused, barely able to catch his breath. A lifetime of confusion and heartache rushed to the surface of his memory. It had been hell to wait until Monsieur Dupree left before he could speak freely.

"Yes?" Angelica pursed her lips and urged him to speak.

"I thought it was because I had disobeyed."

"Excuse me?"

"Three days before the faire you had told me to stay away from the Manor. I disobeyed."

Tears fell harder. "I was angry, but I would not have abandoned you." She forced a smile. "You did far worse. My good china was missing three bowls and a plate."

"They told me it was punishment," he said under his breath, attempting to sort fact from fiction.

He still recalled the smell of feces and damp straw as he was tossed into an animal cage.

He had no idea what had lived there before him, only that whatever it was had died or escaped. Still groggy, he realized he would face the same fate: Death or escape.

"I would have sent you to your room without supper." She sniffled. "My God, I would never have abandoned you. Never."

_The first kick to the ribs left him longing for a swift, merciful end. No one had ever hit him, ever stood over him and screamed in his face. Before he'd become fully conscious he was pulled upright and stripped of his best clothing._

_"The son of the devil would not wear Sunday's best," the toothless man had said. He smiled, grabbed Erik by the chin, and stared at the mask. _

_Erik had known what would happen next but he couldn't move. His body was no longer his own. The world moved, shimmered before his eyes like heat off a hot summer road. He braced himself for cold air against his cheek, but nothing prepared him for what had happened._

_Rather than confiscate the mask, the man spit on him. At first Erik was so shocked he couldn't breathe. He merely blinked, felt hot breaths against his flesh, saw the cruel, satisfied smile. Heat burned his cheeks and ears, humiliation boiling in his blood. The man laughed, and when Erik didn't react, he shoved him hard against the steel bars and slapped him across the face. _

_Pain reverberated through his body, echoed through every nerve. Once the numbness subsided, it felt as though his cheek was on fire. Nine years of age and no one had ever raised a hand at him. He didn't know what to say or what to do. _

_"I want to return home," he'd whimpered._

_"No one wants you."_

_"Please, please I want to return home."_

_"To who?"_

_"My mother." _

_The man's eyes had narrowed. "And who is she?"_

_"Madame Angelica Belmont."_

_"Angelica?" The man leaned down, grabbed a fistful of his hair. He pulled him forward, displaying him to a small band of carnival folk, and ripped the mask from Erik's face. "So an angel birthed the son of the devil?"_

_"I'm not the son of the devil." Those were the only words he managed to utter under his breath. _

_"Of course you are. By tomorrow, you'll have your own banner. In three weeks, when we enter London, you'll have your own act."_

_He put his hands to his face, wanting nothing more than to end the cruel laughter that surrounded him. Laughter he knew well, both in joy and in its cruelty. The boy at the faire had laughed at him, had made him feel smaller and more insignificant than he'd ever felt before. He didn't know the boy's name, didn't know where he came from, but it didn't matter. Only his reaction remained in Erik's mind, a plague of humiliation and fear. _

_He realized then that he had no idea how to survive, no idea how to live alone. And that was what he would be. Completely alone. _

"They said…you gave them money and asked them to take me."

"No. No, that isn't true."

"They said you were ashamed of me."

"I was ashamed of myself." She didn't bother to wipe her eyes. "For letting you out of my sight."

"How hard did you search?" he asked bitterly.

"I searched for you for hours and then I contacted the constables and they searched for you as well, until every tent, wagon…"

"What about the cages?"

Her lips quivered. "Everywhere. I looked everywhere." She clutched his wrist, her eyes filled with desperation. "I don't know what to say to you, Erik." She looked past him at the parlor door. "But I cannot know my son in a hallway," she whispered.

His back stiffened, shoulders squared. Of all the emotions he harbored, anger was the first summoned. "Do you want to know me?"

She answered with her palm against his cheek. "If you would allow it." Her voice was so soft he could barely hear her. "I've waited twenty-eight years to find you, and I always expected to see a little boy return home. When you didn't…"

He wanted to ask if she'd given up, but he didn't want to hear her answer.

"I'm still surprised to see you as a man."

"Why?"

"Because I'm your mother, Erik. Every day of my life I have pictured you as you appeared that day. Your hair combed back, your best shirt and waistcoat…you were so handsome…such a gentleman."

A shiver ran down his spine and he clenched his fists. "Wednesday."

"Pardon me?"

"If you would care to visit, you may do so Wednesday." He hated himself. Years of waiting, wondering…needing to know he wasn't alone—and now he would hold it off for another two days. Nearly thirty years had passed and he wasn't prepared to see her again.

She grasped his hand, her fingers lacing with his. He wanted to jerk his hand away, but he couldn't. Memories flooded his mind, thoughts of rainy afternoons and warm summer days. He couldn't hate her. She had loved him. She was the only person who had ever loved him.

Suddenly he wanted to apologize, but she spoke first.

"I will accept whatever time you allow me."

He turned away from her and paused, his heart wrenching in his chest. "Did you honestly search for me?"

"Yes, of course. Until I made myself sick with worry."

He couldn't stop the words from leaving his mouth. He had to know the truth. "Why did you stop?"

"I never stopped."


	100. Laughter at Last

This one's for Rave!

Paladin100

"Are you sure it isn't any trouble?" Antole Turro asked.

"None at all," Philippe replied. "The girls have run themselves ragged in your absence. It would be a pleasure to stay and help you and Madame Turro."

From the corner of his eye he saw Sabine stand a little straighter as she wrapped her arms around her younger sister, who had started to clap when he'd agreed to stay at the house. At least someone was thrilled with the prospect, he thought wryly.

"Well, then," Monsieur Turro replied. "Have Sabine put you to work immediately." He looked around even though his cataracts prevented him from seeing the room clearly. "Where is that other handsome man who threatened to steal my wife away?" He chuckled to himself.

"We're right here, darling," Madame Turro. She moved onto the couch beside her husband and patted his hand. "It's been a long day. Why don't you have Sabine or Laure escort you upstairs and bring you a cup of tea?"

He sighed and pouted, which reminded Philippe of a senile old uncle his mother had once forced him and Sophia to visit when they were children. The man was in his eighties but had acted like a child.

"I suppose you're correct, dearie," Monsieur Turro glowered. "I've made myself giddy and I do need my eye drops."

Madame Turro kissed his cheek. "You rest and I will see our guests to the door."

"Are you certain?"

"Positive."

Laure immediately stepped forward and took Monsieur Turro by the arm. She flashed Philippe a smile and patted her employer's arm. "Come with me, Monsieur. I'm certain Sabine will show Monsieur Philippe what needs to be done."

Once they were gone, Philippe stepped forward and took Sophia's hand. "You will stay with Citrine tonight, won't you?"

"Yes, if she wouldn't mind the company."

"Swear to me?"

"Philippe," she warned. "I'm fine. We will eat supper together and then stay up all night telling each other ghost stories."

"You shouldn't stay awake all night."

Sophia shook her head and grinned. "Will you promise me something?"

He tilted his head to the side. "Tell me."

"While you're here, search for your sense of humor, big brother."

"Find something genuinely amusing to say and I'll consider it," he answered.

She slapped his arm. "You'll return in the morning?"

"Most likely before you're awake."

"Don't rush home on my account. I'll be fine. Honestly. Besides, if you worry too much…" She looked over his shoulder and smiled. "You'll drive poor Sabine absolutely mad."

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "I don't want to hear from Auntie Anne when I return, Sophia. Behave yourself," he said.

"You, too."

He ignored her words and faced Monsieur Belmont. "I trust you will see to it that Citrine and Sophia are on their best behavior," he said sternly.

"Of course."

"Very well." He turned toward Sabine and attempted to smile. "What shall I do first?"

"Follow me," she said under her breath.

She walked briskly from the room and down the hall as he lagged behind. He was forced to jog to catch up to her once she turned the corner. When he finally found her, she had covered her face with her hands.

"Sabine?"

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered sharply.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Staying here. Why are you staying here?"

"To help—"

"Philippe, don't lie to me."

He shifted his weight. "Monsieur and Madame Turro need a man to help them, not a child and a woman—"

"With child?" she asked accusingly.

His nostrils flared. Those were the last words he wanted to hear her speak.

"That is of no concern to me," he answered quietly.

"It is to me." She gave one last cold stare before she turned away.

Gritting his teeth, Philippe grabbed her by the arm and forced her to meet his eye. "I could help you."

"Why would you want to do that?" she questioned, her voice tight.

"Because."

"Because you wish to ruin your reputation? To be known as a man who pities—"

"I don't pity you. Please, don't turn from me again."

"You should return home, Philippe. I don't want you to do this."

"Why?" She didn't answer and he gripped her arm tighter. "Tell me why."

"This shouldn't be your problem," she whispered softly.

"You want this to be yours alone?"

"Yes," she snapped. She frowned at him. "No. I don't know what I want."

"Then let me help you."

"I don't need charity."

"Fine." He was losing her, and although he knew he was badgering her, he refused to back down. "Then at least allow me to see you. As a friend, Sabine. Merely as a friend who cares for you."

Her shoulders dropped in defeat, but she gave a sigh of relief. For a moment he thought she would question him in return, but she didn't. She offered a half-hearted smile instead. "Thank you, Philippe."

-o-

Sophia looked out the window as the carriage passed through the iron gates. "It went well."

"Excuse me?"

She turned to Erik. "The visit."

"Yes."

"Yes," she confirmed. "I'm glad."

He smoothed his pant legs and looked away. "I have asked her to visit the Manor."

His tone was so casual and steady that Sophia was speechless, a first for her. Her lips parted, eyes narrowed. "Truly?"

"Truly." He looked at her and smiled at last. "I learned much. In the hallway."

"The two of you were gone for so long that Monsieur Turro thought you had run away with her. He's a very nice man, don't you think? A little eccentric, perhaps, but a good man. I bet fifty years ago all the women in the county were batting their eyelashes at him."

"He's interesting," Erik mumbled, which gave Sophia the impression that he didn't much care to discuss his mother's husband.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" she asked.

He stared at his hands, his expression sobering. "No, I didn't. At least not exactly what I expected to find."

"Oh."

"I expected…"

She clasped her hands and waited for him to speak, deciding it was best not to pry. He swallowed and took a breath, obviously struggling with his emotions. She'd expected as much, knowing how difficult it had been for him to travel to the estate and then confront the mother he hadn't seen since he was a small child.

"Rejection," he mumbled.

The pain on his face was too much to bear and she leaned forward, placing her hand over his. With a warm smile, she looked into his eyes. "Then I'm glad you didn't find what you expected."

He squeezed her hand. "I thought she had abandoned me."

"Why would you think that?" she asked, keeping her tone light.

He didn't answer, and Sophia refused to allow the silence to grow.

"Erik?"

He linked his fingers together and exhaled. As Gabe drove them home, he told her of the traveling faire, the gypsies, and his abduction. His honesty—and the brutality he spoke so frankly of—sent a chill down her spine. By the time they reached the Manor, it was Sophia who sat in silence. She could barely comprehend how he'd survived.

The carriage slowed as it approached the wooden gate. Erik adjusted his gloves and placed his broad hands on his thighs, which momentarily distracted Sophia from her melancholy thoughts.

"I'm glad you found her again," she blurted out. "After all these years, it's truly amazing."

"It is." He nodded, his fingers splayed across the dark wool of his trousers.

He drummed his fingertips against his long legs while he stared out the window and waited for Gabe to bring the horses to a stop. The sight of his long—albeit hidden—fingers sent her thoughts wandering and she cleared her throat, hoping it was dark enough in the cab to hide her blush. All she could think of was that Philippe would be bothering someone else for the night and how she hoped Erik would remove his gloves the moment he entered his home.

"Shall we?" he questioned suddenly. He stood and opened the cab door. Once he was standing outside the carriage, he turned and offered his gloved hand.

"May I ask you a question?"

He nodded, his hand cupping hers. Her heart beat so fast she thought she would pass out.

"May I practice the piano tonight?"

He inhaled. "If you wish."

Somehow, his words didn't mirror the excitement she felt building inside.

"Thank you," she said, disappointed with his response.

"We won't be able to practice late," he said.

-o-

Erik had seen Madam Giry peering out the window the moment the carriage came to a stop. With a frown he watched her swiftly close the curtains and disappear. Until that moment he had forgotten she was within his home.

Apparently, Sophia had noticed her aunt as well. "Oh," she said once she followed his gaze to Madame Giry's bedroom. "I suppose not."

Thoughts stirred within him from the moment Sophia inquired about her lessons. His very male brain had immediately considered the possibilities of a house without the plague of an older brother looming in the distance. Citrine would keep to herself, he knew. Fidelio would lie on the floor, out of trouble. But Aunt Anne? He hadn't considered her presence. If anything, she would request a seat between them.

Sophia squeezed his hand. "What else do you know how to play?"

"Excuse me?"

"What other instruments can you play?"

"Anything you place before me."

A devilish smile played at the corners of her mouth. "Ah, I had forgotten your genius."

He sensed her playful sarcasm and looked away to hide his grin. "Never do so again," he replied gruffly.

"I would apologize, but you forbid me to do so." Her shoulder brushed against his and he couldn't help but glance at her. She released a laugh, which ended in a snort and made her laugh louder. "Stop it!"

"Excuse me?"

"You're making me laugh."

"I haven't said a word."

"Then don't look at me. You're instigating."

"How do you figure?"

"I know what you're doing. You're attempting to make me laugh again." She wiped at her eyes, then fanned her face while she caught her breath.

"I'm doing no such thing."

She looked up at him, her lips parted. Another coy laugh escaped before she turned away. "You don't even realize it," she said softly.

"Realize what?" he asked.

She glanced over her shoulder. There were no words needed. Somehow, he understood—and knew she had the same effect on him.


	101. Thoughts about Sophia

Ala Emiril Legassi, Belmont has kicked it up a notch.

Paladin101

Erik returned to his room to work on his music until supper and Sophia promised she and Citrine would go about their work quietly. The moment Sophia walked into the kitchen she was immediately accosted by her closest friend.

"Good afternoon. If I didn't know any better I'd say you looked guilty."

"I am, Sophia. Very."

"What are we hiding from Philippe? Broken dishes? A missing spoon?"

"You are far too sensible." Citrine grasped Sophia's hand and grinned like the devil. "I have a plan."

Sophia rested her forehead against Citrine's and grinned back. "Are we conspirators?"

"We are, mademoiselle."

"Then let's have it."

"Carriage. Your aunt. Tour of the grounds after supper."

"Excuse me?"

Citrine placed her hands on Sophia's shoulders. "After supper I thought I'd show her around since she's never been here before. Gabe already agreed to be our driver."

Sophia had a feeling Gabe had no idea he'd agreed to anything. "Why would you offer to take her for a ride around the estate?"

Citrine's eyes twinkled. "Because you need to have your music lesson."

Immediately Sophia turned away and felt her face burn with a blush. Perhaps Citrine was correct but she'd never admit to it for fear her mother would roll over in her grave. "What does that have to do with it?"

"Shall I explain it to you?"

"I would gladly invite Auntie Anne to my lessons," Sophia blurted out, but cringed at the thought of her aunt in the room with her, watching over her every move. Her aunt would undoubtedly be much worse than Philippe.

"Then shall I call for her now?"

"No!" She spun around, hands extended.

Citrine smiled. "I didn't think so."

"She is nobody's fool, Citrine. She'll suspect something at once."

"No, she won't."

"You don't know my aunt."

"And she doesn't know me."

"You'll have to hog tie her in order to make her leave the house."

"I could, but that's not nearly as much fun as consuming a bottle of wine together."

Sophia frowned. "She won't do it."

"You let me worry about that while you dress for supper."

"But I haven't finished—"

"I said go. You better look so beautiful that even my heart skips a beat."

"Oh, Citrine."

"Listen to me, mademoiselle. There is no denying love."

"You're being quite presumptuous."

"I'm not the only one."

Her heart stuttered. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Of course I do. I have perfect vision, but even if I didn't I could still see the way you look at him and the way he melts every time you're near. Philippe is gone for the night. You may as well enjoy a quiet evening together…but not too much, mind you."

"Citrine!"

"Off with you. And remember, arrive at supper a few minutes late but act casual and sophisticated. Make him wait for you."

There was no arguing and certainly no turning back. With a nod, Sophia marched home with a grin spread wide across her face. There was no denying that Citrine offered what Sophia wanted: A night alone with Erik. It was madness, it was trouble, but as she entered her bedroom and proceeded to search through her wardrobe, she realized she didn't care. Perhaps it was time she caused a bit of a stir.

-o-

Erik sat with pen in hand and stared at the wall, attempting to comprehend what had happened. Questions he'd expected to carry for the rest of his life were now answered. It would take a while before the significance permeated his mind, but already he felt lighter of spirit. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he had two people to thank.

The first was Madame Giry, who had sent him to the Manor. Without her urging him out of Paris he had no idea what would have happened. Death, most likely, either at his own hands or those of a mob. He shuddered at the thought, at how distant dire circumstances seemed now, which brought him to the second person he needed to acknowledge.

Now more than ever he realized his love for Sophia. Arriving at the Manor would have been unbearable without her patiently staying at his side. Christine, just like the city of Paris, seemed like a fading dream. He wondered what he'd seen in her, why he'd put her first in his life.

Eyes closed, he told himself not to dwell. She was gone and he hoped the best for her. It was all he could do and all he wanted to do, especially when he heard Citrine yelling for Fidelio.

Now there was a woman he wasn't sure if he should thank or cautiously back away from. She had the power to silence anyone—including Madame Giry.

His mind refused to consider Citrine for long. No matter how much work he had ahead of him, composing was secondary to thoughts of Sophia. He wished he'd invited her into his room for the remainder of the afternoon. Hers would be a welcomed distraction, especially with her brother away. He wanted to sit and speak with her without worrying if her brother would approve.

Of course, there was also much more he wanted to do with her. His finger stroked the smooth, flesh-warmed length of his pen and he envisioned her slender hands. He wanted to cradle her fingers in his, gently caress her wrist as he felt her pulse beating in time with his. He wondered what it would taste like to kiss or suckle her fingertips—or how it would feel to have her bring his finger to her lips. Part of him didn't much care how it would feel. He merely wanted to watch.

His tongue flicked out and dampened his lips, which he wanted to plant at the crook of her elbow. Suddenly he needed to smell her, to feel her warmth and the softness of her flesh. The pen was abandoned and he ran his broad hands along his thighs. The room was suddenly a furnace and he tugged at his shirt collar.

The mere thought of her left him breathing heavily and fully aware of his aroused state. As much as he wanted to convince himself a kiss to her lips and a gentle caress would be enough, he knew it would only lead to frustration. The possibilities were endless—and mostly a mystery.

"Oh, Sophia," he sighed.

He was ashamed of himself, but not for his thoughts. He didn't know how to please her. He'd never stood before an undressed woman, never studied the curve of hips and breasts. Often he'd fantasized about a woman's shape, but he'd never experienced the pleasurable sensation of skin to skin, with no barrier or hindrance of clothing.

Pushing his music aside, he ran his fingers through his hair and gritted his teeth. Pure. Prudent. Respectable. Those were the words given to a woman. But he was an inexperienced man, a virgin only years away from turning forty. He knew the workings of his own body like a violinist knew his instrument. It was all he'd ever had and he'd indulged, frequently. If he told her that she'd probably run screaming from him and never look back.

The realization that he was completely naïve terrified him. He'd prove to her he was nothing more than a bumbling, inexperienced fool. Without knowing what else to do, he'd show her exactly why no woman had ever wanted him. His only hope was that it would come naturally, as it did for beasts in the field. Perhaps when the moment arose he would know what to do.

As much as he wanted her now, he half-wished there was time to sort out his feelings…and perhaps find a way to learn the secrets of a woman.

"Monsieur!" Citrine yelled. She stomped upstairs and tapped on the door, instantly vanquishing his lusty thoughts. "In ten minutes I will set your food on the floor and allow your dog inside the house."

He paused and listened to her chuckle. His stern expression turned into a reluctant smile. "And in eleven minutes you will find yourself looking for employment elsewhere," he mumbled.

"Come now, Monsieur. You mustn't be foolhardy."

"Foolhardy?"

"Of course. After all, you'll find no better cook in all of Europe."

"How fortunate for you." He stood and shuffled his sheet music into a neat pile. The banter had him amused, but he didn't want her to know he enjoyed her playful words—even though he assumed she was already well aware.

"But all the more fortunate for you, Monsieur. Without me, who would ever douse your meals in salt?" Her voice was musical, each word teetering on the edge of laughter.

"My supper had better not be cold," he gruffly replied.

"Well, that will be no fault of mine. Nine minutes, Monsieur." She coughed delicately. "Mustn't keep Sophia waiting."

His thoughts ran away once more, returning to the one place he longed to be: With Sophia.


	102. To New Relationships

Paladin102

Erik entered the dining room and found himself alone. Candlelight flickered across the table, the yellow flames glinting off white china and silverware. Everything was perfect for an evening spent with Sophia except he knew there was something wrong.

Her aunt would be sitting between them, steering the conversation to topics she found suitable for them. His hands balled into fists and he attempted to relax his mind and satisfy himself with Sophia's company. Whatever he had intended for the night most certainly would be as appropriate to say to her in private as it would before a member of her family.

"Madame, are you almost ready?" Citrine called out as she marched down the hall with Fidelio following close behind.

Erik saw a glimpse of her as she pulled on her gloves. A ribbon from her bonnet trailed behind and then she was gone, only the echo of her shoes against the floors indicating where she was in the house.

"Oh, I haven't a thing to wear for this," Madame Giry answered.

Erik's eyes narrowed and he wondered why Citrine hadn't mentioned Madame Giry would be leaving for the evening. Perhaps it shouldn't have made him smile, but he found his mood lightening, especially now that the candlelight could be put to good use.

"You needn't impress the horses. They are used to seeing Gabe and Monsieur Monteclaire," Citrine teased.

"I'm not sure about this," Madame Giry replied.

"I have wine chilled and a basket of cheeses and sausage already in the carriage. I'd hate to indulge all alone, Madame."

"I've had a headache all afternoon…"

"Ah, and now you need fresh air and a bit of relaxation. Come, now. I'm beginning to think you do not care for me, Madame."

Citrine marched back toward the kitchen and paused in the dining room doorway. She smoothed her skirt and grinned triumphantly. "Gabe said he wishes to teach Fidelio how to drive the carriage."

He opened his mouth but had no idea what to say to her. "Fine," he mumbled, shaking his head.

She lifted onto the balls of her feet and chuckled. "Good night, Monsieur."

In the blink of an eye she was gone and the last Erik heard was Madame Giry complaining about the cold.

He stood in the dining room while he waited for Sophia. The wall mirror was crooked, which he straightened, and discovered a creaky board on the floor beneath the rug that threatened to drive him mad.

There was no need to be nervous, he said to himself. It was natural for two people to enjoy one another's company. They would finally have the opportunity to know one another intimately. But not too intimately. He cracked his knuckles, finding no relief from his anxiety.

"You will ruin your fingers."

He turned on his heel and found Sophia in the doorway. Her earrings swayed as she tilted her head to the side and smiled. Her hair was piled on top of her head, exposing her slender, long neck.

"You look…"

She visibly swallowed, her hands balled in the silk of her light blue skirt. "Yes?" she whispered.

"Very pretty," he said, carefully pronouncing his words for fear of stumbling over his tongue.

"This is the first time I've worn this dress," she said. She played with a simple gold chain and a small locket that lingered just above her cleavage. The neckline plunged in what he assumed was a style far too modern for her aunt to find acceptable. To him it was perfect.

He helped her into her chair and lingered a moment with his hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him, her blush evident even in the dimly lit room.

"You flatter me," she said softly. "With the way you look at me."

"It is difficult to look away from you."

She touched his hand, her smile beaming. "You must sit before your food grows cold. It'll make you sick."

"Why is that?"

"I haven't any idea, but my mother always told me so and I believed her."

He stepped back, his gaze on her as he took his seat. The room was quiet, save for the clock ticking in the hall. Now that he had her all to himself he had no idea what to say to her.

-o-

Sophia felt warm both inside and out each time Erik gazed at her. It was as though he'd noticed her for the first time as a woman, and it made her even more aware of her low neckline and the piece of jewelry drawing attention to _her assets_, as Citrine had put it.

"I love this room," she mused. "I always have, since the day I first arrived. It just feels like it should be filled with laughter. What about you? Which room do you prefer?"

"The parlor."

_The piano room._ Her toes curled in her shoes as she thought of all the moments they had spent in there…upon the piano bench. Unladylike thoughts momentarily removed her from the dining room as she imagined a comfortable evening spent practicing music or listening to Erik play…or merely watching him.

"It's warmer in there, I think," he added.

"Are you cold?"

"No." He rose from his chair. "Are you cold?"

"No, I'm fine. It's just that you mentioned it was warmer in the other room."

He nodded as he sat down again. "Merely an observation."

"Ah. A good one." She buttered a dinner roll and nervously picked off warm chunks while he cut through his meat then stabbed his green beans with his fork. His expression was unreadable and she wondered if he was as nervous as she was. Most of the time he was simply quiet, his emotions deeply buried beneath more than a mask.

She looked around the room while they ate in silence and she wondered what it had been like when his mother was the head of the house, which suddenly gave her a new topic to keep the conversation rolling. The last thing she wanted was for silence to overtake the evening and have it end on an awkward note, especially after all the trouble Citrine had gone through for them. She imagined the household cook would never let her forget it.

"Well, it's been a very exciting day, hasn't it?" She lifted her wine glass from the table and smiled. Their glasses clinked together and she giggled.

"What is funny?" His glass lowered slightly, his warm expression fading.

"I've never given a toast before."

The smile returned, albeit sheepishly. "What do you wish to toast?"

Sophia licked her lips, her hand trembling as she squeezed the stemware. "To new relationships."

She sat perched on the edge of her chair and waited for him to acknowledge her words. His first reaction was to swallow hard, followed by a tentative nod, which told her nothing of what he was feeling. By now she should have been accustomed to his enigmatic ways but he continued to leave her breathless and waiting. Finally, he placed his wine glass on the table and reached for her hand.

"Oh, my," she whispered. It was quite possible the words never left her mouth. Nothing was certain now that their hands were joined, his warm flesh covering hers. Long, thick fingers caressed the back of her hand from her wrist to her fingertips. Her heart beat faster, her breath caught in her throat.

"Sophia," he murmured. His fingers closed over hers and she squeezed back, wanting to hold him closer. "To new relationships."

"Long relationships," she added as she rose from her seat.

"Long relationships," he echoed as his chair scraped the floor.

He stood before she did and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her so close she could barely breathe. Slowly she wriggled her arms from her sides and rubbed his chest. He blinked at her, his lips parted, waiting, waiting… She wanted to muster her wits and kiss him but she couldn't move, couldn't break the trance of his embrace. It felt perfect to be in his arms, to share his warmth, to experience the tickle of his hot breaths on her face.

"Sophia," he whispered.

"Yes?"

His grip on her loosened, his once smiling lips now a frown. He turned away and brought his hand to his face. Before she could protest, he slipped the mask from his face and turned to look at her again.

"To new relationships," he said, raw pain evident in his eyes.

She could no longer resist. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around his neck and made him lean forward. His lips parted in surprise before she kissed him, full on the mouth.

Warm, broad hands slid down her back and gripped her waist. He smashed her body to his and returned her kiss with such force that she groaned, partially in pleasure and partially in surprise.

"To new relationships," she sighed. She kissed him softly, and felt his tongue flick against her lips. Lightning bolts shot through her insides and she wondered how life could possibly be better than this moment. "And old ones too."


	103. Releasing Butterflies

Paladin103

Sophia nuzzled his face, her soft, warm lips lingering against his. Eyes closed, he kissed her repeatedly, gentle at times and claiming at others. All the while he kept her in his grasp and attempted to memorize her shape and smell.

He wouldn't let her go, not ever. She fit perfectly in his arms, tasted like what he'd always craved. He'd never known how soft and comfortable a woman's touch was compared to his own, never guessed that his lips could capture moans. Everything about this woman he thought he knew was a mystery.

"You're so warm," she murmured. "Like sunlight. Only better."

"Better?" He turned his head to the side and kissed her deeply, finding the perfect angle to fit his lips over hers.

"Because I can touch you as well."

He needed more of her to fill the empty spaces he'd forgotten still existed within him. Since he'd first met her it felt as though one by one they were disappearing. Loneliness no longer plagued him.

Fingers splayed, his hand traveled up her back to her shoulders and the nape of her neck where he stroked the baby fine hair. She gripped his arms and swallowed, which was all the encouragement he needed to kiss her harder.

Passion jerked to life as she ran her tongue along his lips. He'd never experienced anything that gave him chills and at the same time filled him with raging fire, but he knew there was more—much more than he'd ever imagined.

His finger traced along the back of her neck and caressed both flesh and the golden chain. He delved lower until he felt the first silk-covered button. Wicked thoughts entered his mind and he wondered if her back was as soft and smooth as her dress. Softer, he guessed, but it wasn't enough to guess. He needed to know.

Blindly he pushed the button through the delicate loop and dipped his finger down her back. Her hands squeezed his shoulders and she opened her mouth wider. Their tongues touched, making him aware of an uncomfortable and growing erection. He needed her attention, needed her to bring him relief. Gently he grasped her hand to guide her to him, to show her what she did to him.

The wind unexpectedly howled outside and Sophia jerked her head back, apparently startled.

"I thought it was…them."

Her eyes widened and she licked her lips as she took a step back. He could almost see sensibility settling onto her visage as she smoothed her skirt and cleared her throat. The room grew a hundred times hotter and he tugged at his cravat but found no relief—anywhere at all, it seemed.

"Shall we enjoy dessert here or in the parlor?" she questioned.

"It doesn't matter." As far as he was concerned, dessert was wherever Sophia existed.

She nodded and glanced down his body. Before she could speak her face turned bright red and she gasped. Almost instantly she busied her grasp with her necklace, which she twirled around her finger as she continued to stare at his trousers.

-o-

The first phrase that came to mind was that it wasn't polite to stare. Still, Sophia couldn't help herself. When she was four years old she'd shared baths with her brother but had since blocked those memories from her mind.

This one would not leave her willingly. She could have spent the better part of an hour imagining what he looked like beneath his clothing, but there was no mistaking he was most definitely male. Very, very, deliciously male.

"Sophia, I—"

"Would you care for coffee?" She coyly turned away and watched him from over her shoulder. "Or more wine?"

He shifted uncomfortably and briefly pursed his lips. "What are you drinking?"

"Coffee, I think."

"Then coffee for me, as well." He sounded breathless, as though suddenly the wind had been knocked from his lungs.

"Would you sit with me in the parlor? I think it would be more…" She glanced at his tented trousers and felt her face burn even hotter than before. "More comfortable."

He cleared his throat. "Comfortable. Yes."

Once she had overheard her brother and several of the stable boys saying that the "state of arousal" was uncomfortable and women put them into "awful heat". At the time she'd had no idea what they were talking about but she knew by instinct that she should never repeat their words to anyone at all, even if she did consider yelling to them to stand in the shade if they were so hot.

Now she realized it had nothing to do with the weather—and that women also experience the uncomfortable state of arousal. As they stood apart she could have sworn each heartbeat threatened to kill her. She wanted to feel him close to her again, to experience the intense flutter in her belly. Eventually the butterflies would need to be released…and she wanted Erik to do it for her.

"Are you certain you don't want me to carry the tray?" he asked.

"Honestly, it's not heavy."

With his hand at the small of her back he accompanied her into the parlor where he paused and quietly shut the door. Somehow, the closed door added to their intimacy in the empty house and her pulse quickened, anticipating another rush.

Once she placed the tray on the service table, she turned to face him but before she could turn he braced her in his arms. Still facing away, he pressed his body to hers and kissed the side of her neck. The slight tickle made her scrunch her shoulders, which only encouraged him to hold her tighter.

"This isn't fair," she giggled.

"I beg your pardon?" He blew in her ear and made her shiver. If she didn't know any better she would have sworn he did it on purpose.

"This," she replied as she pressed a kiss to his ear and reached back to caress his face. Her fingers grazed his ear and then his cheek and he grunted. His head jerked back, his grasp loosening.

Realizing his fears, she whirled around and cupped his face in her hands. She held his gaze, wanting him to see how much she needed him, needed this moment.

"You cannot kiss me," she said firmly. His lips parted as though he would protest, but before he was able to say a word she kissed him again.

"Sophia…"

"You cannot kiss me when I cannot kiss you back."

His expression softened and he nodded, lips curling in an easy smile. Arms linked around his neck, she kissed him again and felt him relax. It surprised her at how easy it was to hold and kiss him, as though this moment was meant to happen.

He groaned, a long and soft sound that echoed the pleasure she felt inside. Their tongues touched again, searched, played. It was much more enticing than she'd ever expected when she heard her cousin Meg whisper about kissing boys with her tongue. Sophia had always imagined it was much more like licking someone—sort of as a cat licked and cleaned its kitten. This, however, was velvety and seductive, a moist heat that made her long for more of the unknown.

Broad hands found her hips and gently squeezed her. A thrust of hips brought her closer and her heart stuttered at the feel of him—the very male feel of him—pressed against her belly. Seeing an outline of his excitement was one thing, but _feeling_ him was quite another. She couldn't imagine how that thing could ever be comfortable, let alone pleasurable, to any part of her body. Just the thought of the long, hard appendage rubbing against her leg sounded like it would hurt.

She kissed him one last time, shifted a comfortable distance away, and awkwardly patted his shoulder. He didn't seem at all offended. Mesmerized, yes, but disappointed, no. Perhaps he experienced the same dizzying array of emotions that had rushed into her head.

"Sugar and milk?" she questioned.

"I'd rather kiss you again."

She flashed a devilish smile. "If you insist."

Then she kissed him again.


	104. Love

A/N: Personal plug for me... The single greatest gift you can buy for family and friends this holiday season is either THE VIKING STONES or A HEART THAT WAITS. Forget the holiday rush! I have ya covered! And remember a portion of royalties _always_ goes to charity.

Paladin104

Sophia giggled softly and wrapped her arms around Erik's back. "That tickles."

"I know," he replied against her neck. His breath now smelled like coffee, and she wondered if his lips were sugary sweet.

She turned her head to the side, still beaming inside and out. "Then why do you insist on tickling me?"

"Because I want to hear you laugh." He pressed his lips to the sensitive flesh beneath her ear and she contained a squeal of ecstasy. He threatened to drive her mad each time he kissed her there, but she loved every moment.

"What if I did it to you?" she murmured.

He paused, breathing harder than before. His tongue flicked out and touched her ear, which she now wanted to do to him. When he didn't protest her words, she pressed against his shoulders and made him bend to her height.

While she untied his cravat, she watched him struggle to keep his eyes open. She purposely caressed his neck with the backs of her fingers before she rubbed her lips against his warm skin.

"How about this?" she said in a breathy whisper.

At first he stiffened to her gentle kisses along his throat, but then he exhaled. He swallowed and murmured something under his breath but she didn't quite hear him. She didn't need to hear him. All she needed was to feel his chin rise and give her access to his flesh.

Tenderly she kissed him, nuzzled his freshly shaven chin. He smelled faintly of pine, which complemented his own masculine scent. As if by instinct, she gently nibbled him and discovered that his jaw was sensitive to her touch.

A soft chuckle left his lips and she clutched his shoulders tighter than before to steady him, fearing he would lower his chin and ruin her fun. As far as she was concerned, her enjoyment had only just begun and wouldn't end until she made him laugh and writhe in the same way he made her react.

"Does it make you shiver?" she asked.

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, his heavy-lidded gaze trained on hers. "It does."

"Good."

"You sound quite devious, Mademoiselle."

"Me? Never."

"You are as innocent as Mademoiselle Citrine?"

Sophia laughed as he turned her, gently twirled her over the thick carpet. Her head grew light, her feet barely touching the floor.

"Clearly you don't know a thing about Citrine."

"I only want to know you." He kissed her lips again and rubbed her back, drawing her comfortably closer. This time she was prepared to feel the evidence of his arousal. Her mind wandered, wondering what he would feel like if she touched him. The thought made her blush and she was thankful that he kissed her.

"How much better can you know me?" she asked between kisses.

He paused and studied her a moment. "Much better," he answered at last.

"Oh." Her stomach tightened. She held her breath as he once again turned the tables and kissed the underside of her wrist. The color of his eyes had changed from pale green to a darker, more seductive shade of emerald.

"Sophia," he whispered as his hand snaked around her and held her tight. He rubbed his nose against hers and kissed her softly, tenderly. The world disappeared when she looked into his eyes, felt herself locked in his warm embrace. She didn't know what it was, but she only wanted to be here, with him.

"Yes, Erik?" she murmured.

"Sophia, I love you."

-o-

Horror. Rejection. Denial. He waited for her to turn away or laugh or complain that she was tired, but she didn't move from his grasp. Her lips formed the sweetest, most loving smile he'd ever seen in his life. At last he was able to breathe, to register his spoken words.

He did love her. Perhaps he'd always loved, and now that they were alone together, he knew without a doubt that there was no one on his mind except for her.

"I love you too," she whispered.

He smiled and gave a sigh.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice almost dreamy.

"I'm relieved," he said. "Because I'm not alone in my affections."

"Well, of course not. You make it far too easy."

"Excuse me?"

The blush in her cheeks deepened. "You're too charming not to love," she replied. "And the way you have kissed me…a proper lady cannot divulge how she feels with such careful…attention."

He barely allowed her to finish before he kissed her hard on the lips and ran his hands from her waist up to her back. Deft fingers caressed her shoulders and stroked the curve of her full breast. She trembled as he traced around her nipple, groaned as he rubbed the heel of his hand over the hardened peak.

"Tell me how you feel," he murmured between kisses, alternating between light and hard caresses.

"Like I can barely breathe," she panted, her back arching. "How do you feel?"

"Like I want to breathe in only you."

As if she knew what he needed as well she stepped closer and her belly rubbed against his painful erection. Feverishly he struggled with the buttons on the back of her dress, his fingers suddenly too large to push each one through its respective hole.

But he needed to touch her bare flesh, to hold her in the way men were entitled to savor women. He couldn't stop himself. Every inch of his flesh ached to touch and taste her, to give her more and more of his unwavering attention.

He had her dress unbuttoned to the middle of her back and ran his fingers along her whalebone corset when she suddenly pulled away, her chest heaving.

"We cannot make love," she blurted out. At once he froze, afraid he'd hurt her in a moment of passion. Her gaze dropped, her swollen lips forming a frown. "I…I apologize. It's just something my mother said to me a long time ago."

His eyes narrowed, his breaths still quick and harsh. "What did she say to you?"

Sophia pursed her lips. "She said there are three important days in a woman's life. The day she is born and her mother sees her for the first time, the day she is married, and the day her first child is born. For as long as I can remember, I've always known my wedding night would be special. I guess I want it to stay special. I'm sorry."

"I'm not." He kissed her again, refusing to give in to his disappointment.

"Are you certain?"

"Not completely." He chuckled and ran his fingers along the back of her neck.

"Please understand—"

"Sophia, I understand."

"But you're disappointed." She shifted her weight and chewed on her bottom lip.

"I have you. How could I be disappointed?"

She grinned and wiggled in his grasp again. "There you go again, being romantic and irresistible."

He started to pull away but his sleeve caught on her dress and she jerked with him. Together they froze and stared at one another.

"Is it your cufflinks?" she asked.

"I think so. Is it your hair?"

"No. I would have screamed if you'd pulled my hair. It must be my dress."

He gave a curt nod. "Hold still."

"I am."

Erik gave two hard tugs and Sophia gritted her teeth. She clung to his shoulders and shook her head.

"Don't move," he said.

"I'm only moving because you're shaking me!"

"If I wrench it hard enough—"

"Then you'll tear my dress. Please, I implore you, salvage this dress. If Aunt Anne were to walk in and see you've torn my dress she'll probably walk to the Turro Estate and order Philippe to return at once."

He barely listened to her words as he felt along his wrist and attempted to figure out how he was physically connected to her. Even if she said she wasn't moving she was. Each time she breathed, he lost his grasp on the string caught on his cufflink and her button.

"I should have known," Sophia muttered.

"Known what?" He attempted to look over her shoulder. "Hold still."

"That this would happen."

"That I'd catch my cufflink on your dress?" He found himself slightly taken aback but completely amused by her words.

"Well, maybe not that exactly…but something…unexpected."

He smiled, still unable to unravel the thread and afraid to pull it loose and tear her dress. "Why is that?"

She gave a weary sigh. "I just can't seem to stay out of trouble."

"A bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"Not at all." Her forehead rested against his chest, and the complete sensuality of the moment was ruined when she burst out laughing. Her mirth was so genuine that she barely managed to stifle a snort, which made him chuckle. As much as he craved intimacy, there was no denying how much he enjoyed her presence.

"It's not funny. I have a very serious condition with my nose."

Her tone was so stern that he didn't know what to say. Before he could reply, she started laughing again and wrapped her arms around him.

"You're not telling the truth, are you?"

"No, I'm not. I'm simply terrible."

"Terrible? No. But what has come over you?" He tried winding the string counter clockwise.

She paused and gazed up at him. "Honestly, I think I'm always this way. You just have something about you that makes it worse."

"There's nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all."

She merely smiled wanly and rested her head against his chest again. "You just don't want the blame. Or you don't see it."

"See what?"

"I don't know."

"Then there's nothing to see. You're beautiful and you're kind. You cannot convince me that you're not the most perfect woman in the entire world."

"The world is large."

"And full of people who are not kind, Sophia, not kind at all." He held her close for a moment and wondered why her mood had suddenly changed, why her playful demeanor had sobered.

At last she nodded. "Perhaps that is true."

The string finally came free and he pulled his hand away from her back. "There."

"Did you tear it?"

"No."

She reached behind her back and gasped. "Oh, you must have undone almost all of the buttons. Here." She turned away and stood straight as a board. "Help me. Quickly, before Aunt Anne and Citrine—"

The front door opened and closed. Sophia nearly jumped out of her skin—and her dress.


	105. Unexpected Reaction

Paladin105

The sickening sound of fabric ripping filled the air for only a heartbeat, but it was enough to terrify Sophia. Her eyes widened and she stared at the parlor door and wished she could disappear before her aunt found her half-naked with a man.

Ancient threats of convents or exile from France entered her mind. She could still clearly hear her mother warning of unwanted children—or worse yet: Disgracing the family. Surely Aunt Anne was no different. Indeed, she was probably worse.

"Yoo hoo!" Citrine called out. "We're home!"

"Must you yell? I told you I have a headache," Aunt Anne snapped.

"You wouldn't have a headache if you'd had another glass of wine," Citrine replied dryly.

Sophia cringed. Her aunt was undoubtedly sober and would remember each detail of this evening until she was dead. "She'll murder me," Sophia said under her breath.

Erik squeezed her wrist. "Turn around."

"I beg your pardon?"

He stepped behind her and she felt the warmth of his fingertips skim along her back. It was almost impossible to resist a shiver of pleasure. Her knees threatened to give out, but fear kept her upright.

"Here," he said coolly. Clearly he didn't know her aunt if he wasn't about to panic. "I buttoned the top one and the middle one."

"Wonderful," she replied dryly.

"Sit." He grabbed her by the shoulders and escorted her toward the piano bench where he promptly sat her down and removed his overcoat. He helped her thread her arms through its sleeves.

"What are you doing?"

"Keeping you warm," he mumbled.

"I don't understand."

"I gave you my coat because you were cold." He slid into his seat beside her and stuffed his cravat—which she hadn't seen him retrieve—into his pocket, then donned his mask and ran his hands over his hair.

"But I—" She paused mid-sentence and nodded, finally understanding. "Oh."

"And I've always been very hot-blooded." He smiled slyly, his gaze sweeping up her dress to her face. His eyes creased with amusement and unabashed longing. "Very."

"You are pure mischief." She felt herself blush again but forced a smile, as she heard Citrine and Aunt Anne walking down the hallway.

"Indeed." Erik dusted off his shirt sleeves and squared his shoulders. He watched her from the corner of his eye as he gathered the sheet music and searched for a particular piece. "Now, relax."

"Easy for you to say," she muttered.

-o-

There was no erasing the look of pure guilt on Sophia's face. No matter what he said or did, she could not pretend they had merely sat for a quiet supper and retired to the parlor for her music lesson—even if her virtues were still in tact and her dignity preserved.

"We've returned." Citrine tapped on the door before she opened it a crack and smiled. "How was your meal?"

Sophia inhaled sharply, her face turning an even deeper shade of red.

"It was fine," Erik answered. He purposely nudged Sophia with his forearm and she nodded in silent agreement.

"Good." Citrine glanced over her shoulder as Madame Giry murmured some protest. "Straight to bed, Madame?"

"No," came the acidic reply.

Erik's jaw tightened. He should have known the old biddy would stick her nose into the parlor. He imagined she'd take one look at Sophia and decide if her precious niece had been ravaged all evening.

Citrine turned back to Erik and Sophia and rolled her eyes. "We've had a very charming evening. I'd hate to see it end now," she said dryly.

"Where did you go?" Sophia asked. For the first time she looked over her shoulder at her friend.

"To the orchard and back. The air is cold and damp, the most dreadful combination for bad knees and hips." She pushed open the door and shrugged. Erik noted her slurred words and clumsy entrance and knew she was a bit too relaxed. "I wasn't cold, but I had wine to drink." She sniffed the air. "It's much too warm in here, don't you think? Or is it just me?"

"I'm cold," Sophia announced as though she'd rehearsed the two words all night. Clearly she was unaccustomed to lying.

"I see. You've stripped poor Monsieur Belmont nearly naked and stolen his coat."

Now it was Erik's turn to be red-faced. He coughed to clear his throat and regain his composure, wishing to God that Sophia would say something, anything, before her aunt ran into the parlor and tore them both apart.

"I have not done anything wrong! He offered his coat," Sophia snapped. "He's a gentleman. Citrine, you shouldn't say such terrible things."

"Oh, calm down. You know I'm having a bit of fun with you, Sophia."

A door down the hall opened and closed. Once again Citrine turned away. "Feeling better, Madame?"

There was no answer. Madame Giry pushed past Citrine and looked Sophia over, her eyes narrowing. Erik considered standing, but decided not to draw attention to himself.

"What is with all of this yelling?" Madame asked.

"I'm not yelling." Citrine cross and uncrossed her arms.

"Of course you are. The horses in the stables can hear you."

"You're being overly dramatic," Sophia answered softly.

Madame Giry surveyed the room, her lips tightly pursed. "What has happened here, hmm? Why are you wearing a man's jacket?" She turned to Citrine and gave an exaggerated sigh. "This house is like a drafty old barn. Someone should have started a fire to warm this place. Didn't I tell you it was cold?"

"Yes, but you complained about the cold when we were outside, when it was obviously cold," Citrine replied.

Madame Giry ignored the cook and turned back to Sophia. "Here. Take my shawl and you'll be much more comfortable."

"Thank you, but I'm fine."

"No, you're not fine. Don't argue with me."

"Auntie Anne, I'm not arguing."

"But you're disagreeing."

Sophia gave a nervous laugh. "I don't mean to be disagreeable, but I swear to you, I'm comfortable. Really. This overcoat is very warm."

Madame Giry stepped forward. "Don't be silly, Sophia, you don't know what's best."

"Aunt Anne—"

"Come here at once. It is simply ridiculous for a pretty young woman to be wearing a man's coat. Look at you in that oversized thing. Now, stand up. I will not have you argue with me over petty details, child."

Sophia's nostrils flared and her face reddened. "You don't know what makes me comfortable and what does not! Quit treating me like a child!" She accidentally hit her elbow on the piano keys, which protested with a reverberating sound that briefly filled the stunned silence. At last she harnessed her anger and pursed her lips. "Thank you, but no thank you."

Madame Giry went white as a ghost and Erik was almost certain she would either burst into tears right there or turn and run from the parlor, then return to her room in tears. Instead, she held up her chin and stiffened her spine. "I'm merely looking out for you, child."

"I'm not a child. I do not need looking out for." She looked down at the floor, then back at her aunt. Bravely she held the older woman's gaze, her fears and guilt seemingly relinquished. "And I will not apologize for growing up."

Erik slid his hand over hers and gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

With one last look, her aunt nodded and fixed her gaze above their heads. Erik was certain she would hold this moment inside of her for as long as she lived. "I trust you will not stay awake all night long playing the piano while decent people are sleeping. After all, I'm sure your brother would worry about your health."

"An hour more, Auntie," Sophia answered.

To Erik's surprise, Madame Giry didn't attempt to talk Sophia down to a half hour. She merely nodded and stood with as much dignity as she could muster. "Good night, Sophia."

It came as no surprise that she hadn't acknowledged him before she stalked from the room. Together Erik and Sophia watched her leave with Citrine close behind.

"Where did that come from?" Erik murmured once they were alone. He ran his fingers up her spine, strangely attracted to her more assertive nature. He hadn't seen her feisty side in so long that he'd nearly forgotten it existed.

"I have no idea," Sophia answered.


	106. Realization of Love

Check out my website for new updates, including rants by one of my rescued cats and other fun nonsense!

Paladin106

The night was cool and crisp, still Erik took his time escorting Sophia back to her home. He used each stolen moment to run his fingers the length of her spine and brush his palm over her shoulder.

"You should stay with Citrine tonight," he said, though he wanted to tell her to stay with him. "It will ease Madame's worries."

"I'll be fine." He wasn't convinced, but she patted his hand and smiled. "If I were to stay with Citrine I'd keep her up half the night."

He nodded, secretly wanting her to keep him up half the night—or the entire night. Nothing sounded more appealing to him than an entire night spent in her arms, followed by a content morning of watching the sun rise. Already his imagination painted a vivid picture of her hair fanned out on his pillow and her chest rising and falling with each gentle breath. How beautiful she would look with the sun on her face, adding a hint of rouge to her alabaster complexion.

"Are you tired?" Sophia questioned.

"No," he answered quickly. Far too quickly, as though he anticipated much more than was actually offered—which he realized too late was nothing. She'd only asked a question, not invited him in, and even if she had there was nothing to anticipate.

"You seem…distant."

"Distant?"

"Either you're tired or you're not listening."

He scratched his face beneath his eye to bide his time, since now there was no correct answer. Despite very little experience with women he sensed he shouldn't tell her he hadn't been listening.

"Perhaps I am a bit tired."

"Me, too. I suppose this is good night then."

"Soon," he murmured, his gaze trained on her parted lips. He wanted to kiss her again, to wrap his arms around her and hold her close. "Soon, but not quite yet."

Sophia chuckled. "I think we've both had a bit too much of each other, Monsieur."

She was wrong, but he didn't say a word. He decided not to waste his breath to try to convince her otherwise. Instead, he pressed his hand to the small of her back and smiled before gently kissing her lips one last time. He couldn't imagine ever kissing another woman, ever protecting and loving another human being, as much as he cared for her. Now, beneath the moonlight and inky shadows, he knew without a doubt he could never have enough of her. Each kiss, each embrace led to the need for more touching, more tender loving.

"Good night," he said against her soft, welcoming lips.

She pressed her palm against his chest and rubbed ever so gently, which was enough to gain the upper hand and leave him speechless. Judging by the look in her eye, she realized what she did to him, how she stirred him in ways he never imagined. But also by the gleam in her eyes he knew he'd awakened her as well, though he wasn't quite sure if it was satisfying or merely frustrating to her.

"Good night."

With that she was gone and he was left wanting. Still he smiled and stared at the door, barely able to comprehend the past twenty-four hours. Not only did he have a past slowly coming together, but he also had a future. At last he felt somewhat whole and worthy—and human.

As he returned home, he thought continuously about what she'd said regarding the wedding night. There was a spring in his step as an unbidden image passed through his mind of Sophia with her dark hair draped by a stark white veil, eyes the shade of an evergreen, lips pink as juicy strawberries.

"I'll go home and write a sonnet," he chided himself.

It did nothing to remove the thoughts of Sophia turned suitor to fiancé, to wife. But in the same moment where he found hope, he also found a wall of doubt. Not long ago he'd thought of another woman as the perfect little wife. He didn't want to think of Sophia in terms of the woman he loved or the woman he loved now, because there was no one else.

This changed his course, and instead of returning home he walked past the front door, around the side of the manor, and down a muddy path toward the orchard. In seeing him pass by, Citrine released Fidelio, who whined and sprinted through the yard until he was happily at his master's side.

They walked up a path consisting of more mud than solid ground. Even in the darkness he could see the trees swelling with new buds which would give way to fragrant blossoms. Again he saw Sophia in his mind's eye, this time with a pale pink flower tucked behind her ear, or a bracelet of dried flowers on her wrist.

He looked down at the wolfhound, who was gazing up at him.

"I love her, Fidelio," he said.

He could have sworn the hound smiled back at him and in his own canine way replied, "I know."

-o-

"I will not stay up half the night with you," Sabine said rather sharply as she bustled around the drawing room and straightened everything she could find.

Philippe stood behind her with his arms at his side as he made every effort to keep from balling his hands into fists. He failed miserably after only a few moments. Consequently he also failed to keep his jaw from tensing.

"I'm here to help," Philippe offered.

"Help who?"

"Monsieur and Madame Turro," he answered carefully, knowing if he said he was here to assist her she would probably dismiss him at once.

"Then you should see to Monsieur Turro at once. He would be glad for it."

"For what?"

"Your company. You know he's always thought of you like his son…the son he never quite had."

"The successful son he never had?" he asked dryly.

"Hush. The walls here are thin." She turned away and straightened her skirt, then her hair. The slight touch of fingers to the pile of hair on her head convinced him it was for his sake. Perhaps she didn't want him there, but if they were going to be in the same room she'd look good in his presence.

"You cannot honestly believe I'm serious."

"Serious about what?" She trained her gaze on some of the ugliest decorative bowls Philippe had ever seen. They did, however, match an otherwise completely gaudy red and gold accented room.

"About my success. Unless one considers it a rise in status to go from owning a winery to being a composer's butler."

"Are you complaining to the lady of the house's maid?"

He shifted his weight. "I'm not complaining, merely stating that I'm not the successful man you think I am."

A chuckle escaped. "Well, forgive me for mistaking you as the emperor of France."

"Besides, when I look at you I don't think of you as a maid."

"A servant, then? One without even a title in the house."

"No," he snapped, tired of these games. He wanted a real conversation, one that took place in comfortable chairs with a fireplace at their disposal and a service cart not far away.

"What do you really want, Philippe? To raise another man's child as your own? To take on yet another burden? Think about it, Philippe, if only for a moment. I am not your sole burden."

"You're not a burden to me."

"No, I can care for myself easily enough, but with my life comes my sister's life and my child's. That is my family. Already you have a sister to care for."

"She's a grown woman." He swallowed, barely able to believe his own statement, regardless of whether or not it was true. He'd have to think about that later on. "Look at me when I speak to you."

She did as he requested and folded her hands behind her back. Lips pursed, she waited for him to speak.

"I think of you as a friend because that's what we were in the past, Sabine. Perhaps they are foolish thoughts, but I want to see you as you were last year, when you worked for Belmont Estate."

"I'm not what I used to be," she said in a half-voice.

He knew precisely what she meant and it made his gut tighten. Parts of her had been stolen away not only physically, but emotionally. For the first time he looked at her, really looked at her, and barely recognized her face.

But he recognized enough.

Gently, as though he did not wish to intrude, he stepped forward and offered his hand. She stared at it briefly, tears pooling in her eyes.

"Don't do this to yourself," she whispered.

"You don't need to worry about me."

"Yes, I do, because you never worry about yourself."

He grasped her wrist and pulled her closer. She was exhausted, run ragged from her duties in the household and her duty of caring for her little sister. If he could help it, she would rest more and tend to her own needs. "My only concern is you."

She settled in his grasp, placed her head upon his chest, and muffled the sobs that were accompanied hot, wet tears. She was finally able to cry.


	107. Visitor in the Night

If anyone reading this is from TN, specifically near Smithville, please PM me.

Paladin107

Erik tossed and turned in bed, finding himself hopelessly restless and frustratingly aroused. Each time he inhaled he swore he could smell Sophia on his pillow, and in the soft threads of his pajamas, but it was little more than the lingering scent of laundry soap. Still, it reminded him of her and kept him staring at the ceiling, wishing she was there with him.

He folded his hands on his chest and took a breath. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he had no idea how to please a woman. Skilled in music, knowledgeable in travel and language, he was ignorant of the female form. The closest he'd ever come to seeing a woman's nude form, outside of dancers obscured by poles and drapes, was in books and the occasional statue, but those were cold and unfeeling. He could study a book for an hour but never gather substantial information. What he wanted was warmth and response—the body of a living, breathing woman.

Perhaps he would know what to do once she was before him. He did, of course, know the basics. Among his collection of books were medical volumes, some of which described copulation and conception in the most straightforward and uninteresting of ways.

He still remembered when he first stumbled upon the text and sketches of both male and female subjects. He'd stared quite blankly at the woman immortalized in pencil strokes. At first he'd been stunned that anyone, even a perfect example of humanity, would allow an artist to sketch their nude form. He didn't know why. It had been done for ages and he'd seen nude statues before. But this was different. Alone, with only firelight and moldy text, he'd felt a strange sense of intimacy he'd never felt before.

She'd been the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen and he wondered what she'd have thought if she knew a twenty-year-old virgin sat with a candle burning low and his gaze fixed on her breasts. All he could think was that she'd be repulsed if she knew a monster of a man memorized each curve of her body.

The thought did nothing to quell the already undeniable erection pushing at his pajama pants as he imagined staring at human flesh. More specifically, he longed for Sophia's flesh.

Mechanics of lovemaking didn't interest him as much as the sensations involved, which no drawing could provide. Pictures showed how a man and woman fit together, but he wanted to know how it felt. In almost forty years of life the only stimulation he knew was the manipulation of his own hand. Perhaps he should have felt ashamed, but he didn't. What little relief he had in his life was never a regret before, during, or after he'd found satisfaction.

But now it could all change. Now it could all be real. His breathing turned harsh, expectations for the future growing. The wasted years finally seemed at a distance. He no longer dreamed of unrequited love with a ballet dancer. What he'd imagined would be his death was merely the ending to a long-lasting nightmare.

It seemed anything he was thinking of would deliver amorous thoughts to his mind and an instant reaction below his waist. He couldn't stand the frustration a moment longer and reached for the satin drawstring.

Erik turned onto his side and found Fidelio staring at him, which instantly drained away his amorous feelings and made him chuckle. A lolling tongue and fuzzy canine eyebrows were far less appealing than thoughts of Sophia.

"Quit staring at me," he mumbled.

The bed shook as the wolfhound furiously wagged his tail and pawed at the covers. Erik reached out a hand and patted the dog on the head. He couldn't help but think that one day, with any luck, it would be Sophia asleep beside him and waking to greet him for the rest of his life.

Frustration built again and he rolled away from the dog, turning onto his other side. He thought about his travels, and how he'd once stayed in the presence of monks some twenty years ago. A eunuch had told him in a roundabout way that some monks could not fall asleep at night and that out of necessity they stimulated their bodies until their minds were at last at rest.

The thought turned into a consideration to relax himself, but he still felt Fidelio not only looking at him, but breathing heavily on the back of his neck. As if to confirm his intrusive presence, Fidelio pressed his cold, wet nose to the back of his master's neck.

"Go away," Erik growled, though his voice was filled with humor. He realized, almost in the same instant he spoke, that Fidelio was apparently sharing in his master's frustration.

"Off," he said firmly. The bedsprings squeaked as the wolfhound continued rubbing against the bed. "And stop that, you uncivilized beast."

Downstairs a door opened and promptly closed. Erik gulped down a breath and paused, listening in the darkness as to who was wandering the halls. He couldn't remember if Citrine had returned home for the night. Or if it was the back door he'd heard, or perhaps Madame Giry's door. Or the door to the parlor. Or the solarium. Fidelio failed to take notice of their nocturnal company. Back end swaying back and forth in a hearty tail wagging, he attempted to steal Erik's pillow.

"Stop it!" He snatched his pillow back and gave the dog a stern glare, which caused Fidelio to playfully jump back and run his backside into the wall. The room shook with the force of a seventy-pound puppy and Erik sat up. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.

The stairs creaked with the weight of a visitor and again he held his breath and listened, certain Fidelio's antics had revealed that he was still awake. Without turning his head he glanced at the clock and saw that it was a few minutes before two in the morning. Far too late of an hour for it to be Madame Giry, he concluded, and perhaps an hour or two too early for Citrine to start her day.

His blood pulsed hotter and hotter. It had to be Sophia, though he couldn't imagine how she'd mustered the courage to see him in the middle of the night. Perhaps she had decided that the wedding night was too far in the distance and that she wanted to experience just a taste of the unknown. Broad hands stretched across masculine thighs. How hungry he'd become in only a night, how thirsty for a mere drop of her.

It was too much to resist. He desperately needed to hold her in his arms, feel her pulse as he nuzzled her neck and nibbled on her throat.

Erik pushed away from the bed, took a breath, and pulled the door open. He nearly swallowed his tongue as he found Madame Giry standing in the doorway with a heavy woolen shawl wrapped around her thin frame and her hair down, the silver threads of hair gleaming in the candlelight. He partially hid behind the door, perplexed by her presence.

"Madame," he said warily.

She gave a smile, both unusual and enigmatic in nature. "Good," she said. "I was hoping you were still awake."

He made no reply because his tongue was still lodged firmly at the back of his throat. Without waiting for him to open the door any wider or offer her a moment of his time, she pushed past him and placed one hand on her hip.

"It doesn't surprise me that you're still awake at this hour."

Still he said nothing. He merely watched her, wondering what precisely she wanted with him. Surely she had waited until Sophia was sound asleep so that she could badger him over their inappropriate evening.

"I always did hear you at all hours as you ventured through the walls," she said lightly. "Watching us, I'm sure. Or watching over us?"

"You were never awake this late." His words were curt, his voice cold.

She didn't appear to notice his tone as she studied the fabric walls. "No, not usually. But after that hellish ride in a carriage with that girl in the kitchen, I couldn't sleep."

"Her name is Citrine."

"You always did have a good memory," she sighed. "And a knack for remembering women's names."

"Excuse me? What precisely does that mean?"

"It means exactly what I've said. You're quite intelligent."

Despite her sweet tone, he couldn't relax. He wanted to ask her to leave but was unsure of how to tell her. She wasn't exactly being rude, but she lacked sincerity. No, he thought, it wasn't that she lacked sincerity. He couldn't pinpoint what was lacking, but he had never felt so uneasy in her presence before.

"How was your meeting with Madame Turro?"

"Fine."

"That's all? Merely fine?"

"We enjoyed tea and conversation."

"You've waited a long time to see her again, haven't you?"

"I have." He swallowed, eyeing her with caution.

"And after all of this time, you sum up your first meeting in one, insignificant word? I can't imagine how you'd sum up our relationship, Erik, especially after I'd helped you not once, but twice. First as a boy, then as a man."

"What reward do you seek, Madame?"

"No reward," she said, the same sweetness in every word. She neared him, her gaze sweeping up and down his still form. "Merely a moment of your time."

"A moment of my time in the middle of the night?"

"We're both very similar people, Erik. We're creatures of the night," she replied.

At once he stiffened and took a step back. "No, we're not."

"Then what are we, hmm? You are a musician who has spent the majority of his life within an opera house. I've lived and worked with the stage in all of its forms since I was a young child. We share such similarities—more than we share with anyone else in this house."

His brow furrowed. Words continued to escape him and he swallowed again, rather than reply.

"We should sit a moment, discuss our lives, perhaps…and who knows?"

He didn't want to know what she was insinuating. With each passing second he felt dread pour into his insides, and he backed away from her, deciding that distance was also safety.

"I have work in the morning," he said cautiously. "Many operas and…other…pieces. I should retire now before the sun rises."

She glanced at his bed and shrugged. "As you wish. I will see you in the morning. My last morning."

He couldn't help but give a sigh of relief. "To Paris?"

"No, I don't think so. I don't know where I'll travel to now."


	108. Active Imagination

This chapter gets a PG-13 warning for kinda sorta sexual content.

Paladin108

Sophia pursed her lips, mustered her courage, and finally knocked on Citrine's door. She couldn't decide if she hoped for her summons to be heard or ignored. All she knew for certain was that she felt increasingly foolish and her arm and shoulder ached from the weight of a leather-bound book the size of Fidelio.

Impatiently she glanced back and noticed a light in Erik's bedroom window. She imagined him romantically jotting down notes and arranging the most brilliant piece of music the world had ever heard—and it had blossomed from their kiss.

Her fantasy promptly ended. Citrine opened the door and didn't look at all surprised to see Sophia standing before her, still dressed from the night before.

"Can't reach the buttons?"

"No. Well, yes, but that's not why I'm here."

Citrine had already settled her gaze upon the enormous tome. "A bedtime story?"

Sophia glowered. "No. May I come in before someone hears us?"

Without further questioning, Citrine motioned for Sophia to come inside. "You realize I had exactly one more hour to sleep before you paid a visit."

"No one has ever told you to start at four in the morning. It's your own doing," Sophia replied.

Citrine giggled and slid into a shabby chair. It looked like a piece of furniture overused, possibly removed from the main house and passed down to the servants. Over its back was an ivory lace throw, a purely decorative item that looked like a wedding gift.

"Well, to what do I owe the honor of your late night visit?"

Lips tightly pursed once more, Sophia opened the book on her lap to a page she'd marked with a scrap of cloth and pointed to a drawing.

"Is that what it _really_ looks like?" she asked, her face turning a dozen shades of red.

"I beg your pardon?"

Sophia stared at her a moment. "This." She couldn't bring herself to say the name, merely to point.

"I can't read it. It's upside down."

She turned the book around for Citrine to view the opened pages.

"Ah, I don't have my glasses on. Read it for me."

"The glans…" This was truly impossible. She took a breath, unsure why it embarrassed her so much. "The glans penis." It was then that she blinked and frowned. "Citrine, you don't wear glasses."

"No, I don't," she answered, distracted by the black and white sketches. "Now I must ask where you obtained this book. Surely not from Philippe's collection."

"Yes, it was on the shelf. Father must have purchased it when Mother was ill. Or perhaps the family physician gave it to him. It's all very educational and informational and…medical."

For the first time Citrine seemed uneasy, yet she continued to study the image with unabashed interest. "You're right. This is…informative."

"Is this…a sin, do you think?"

"Hmm. Possibly. Why are you looking at these pictures?"

"Because I want to know what it looks like." She wanted to cover her face with her hands and hide. The thought passed through her mind that perhaps she was the only woman in the world who was completely unfamiliar with the male anatomy.

Citrine nodded but didn't say much for several minutes. When she did at last look at Sophia, she smiled. "For the strict purpose of education? No, I don't believe it's a sin."

Sophia sighed in relief. "Good, because otherwise I've been sinning for well over an hour."

Citrine threw back her head and laughed. "You are too much, Sophia. Truly."

"Coming from you, I don't know whether that's a compliment or not."

"Oh, it is." She looked away from the book and folded her hands. "Now, how much of it did you memorize?"

Again Sophia blushed. "I didn't—"

"I would have. Now be honest with me, Sophia. It's the least you can do after you woke me at this hour."

Sophia took a breath. "Well, I didn't want to memorize _all_ of it because I wasn't sure if this sort of thing….oh, I don't know."

"Yes, you do. Now ask me."

"Does it vary from man to man?"

Now it was Citrine's turn to blush. "I haven't seen that many, Sophia."

It occurred to her that she may have insulted her closest female friend, which wasn't her intention. She put her hands out and promptly dropped the book on the floor. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"I'm not offended." She smiled. "I'm amused."

"Well…is that what they all look like? Or do you know?"

"The two that I have seen, yes. They both looked like that."

"Oh."

"Is something wrong?"

"Well, no, I just expected…"

"Expected what?"

"Something more."

"Like what? A puzzle?"

Sophia covered her mouth and giggled. "Well, I do vaguely remembering bathing in a tub with Philippe when we were quite young."

Citrine wrinkled her nose. "I'd prefer not to bring your brother into this particular conversation." Her eyes narrowed, her visage filled with mischief. "Who would you rather bring into this conversation? A certain Monsieur Belmont?"

Sophia groaned. "What would he think if he knew we were awake in the middle of the night looking at these pictures?"

"He would probably want to turn the page and look at _those_ pictures."

"You're right." Sophia thumbed through the book. "Citrine, I can tell you honestly that I never, ever would have thought it looked like that."

"What were you expecting?"

"More…decoration."

Again Citrine giggled. "Yes, it's sort of…I'm not sure. But you're right, it is lacking decoration—even though it has more decoration than you or I have."

"True." Now that she'd finally been able to ask her questions, she was becoming sleepy—but that didn't quell her curiosity. "But how does it…" She bit her lip and stared at the image. "Fit."

"Oh, well that's just a picture of maleness in its inactive state."

Sophia couldn't stop herself from giggling like a school girl. "Inactive state? What does that mean?"

"It looks a little different when a man is aroused."

She knew this, but she didn't want to admit to seeing a very obvious outline of active maleness, mostly because she didn't want to explain her evening with Erik. It wasn't that she feared Citrine would gossip, but she'd arrived in an unfamiliar and overwhelming place in her life, one filled with the unknown—and the tantalizing.

"It's harder, isn't it?" she asked innocently.

Citrine nodded.

Sophia squeezed her thighs together at the very thought of something hard pressing her _there_. "Oh, I think I might be sick now."

"Why?" Citrine asked, her brow furrowed.

"That sounds absolutely dreadful and terrifying and…yet still very interesting. I think I must be mad."

"Not at all. You're merely human."

"I'm not sure I want to be human."

"Sophia, if I haven't told you this before, I'll tell you now. I just adore you. There should be more people like you in the world." Citrine smiled and closed the book, her usual warm smile directed at Sophia. "I'll make some tea. Let's talk for a while."

"I'd like that." She stood and prepared to follow Citrine, but her host had already skittered into the kitchen. She padded across the room and took a quick peek out the front window. Erik was still awake. She wondered—and blushed—at the thought of his active maleness.


	109. Old Friends and New Knowledge

Paladin109

"Wait."

Anne Giry froze at the sound of Erik's voice. She stood on the threshold with her back to him and her posture stiffened. "Yes, Monsieur?"

Erik hesitated, unsure of why he'd called her back into his chamber. Perhaps it was a need to revisit an old yet neglected friendship. Perhaps it was the desire to repair what had long been broken. Perhaps there was no reason or answer.

"You're leaving yet you don't know where you'll travel?" he questioned.

"What does it matter?" she questioned softly, pathetically.

It annoyed him that she feigned innocence and bewilderment, that she desperately sought his sympathy. He assumed that she knew precisely where she would travel next. Perhaps she even had an apartment somewhere and employment waiting for her upon arrival, though while she could draw out a moment of pity, she would savor it.

"Sophia will worry," he answered as he studied her and wondered when she became a manipulative woman, groping for his sympathy. He couldn't understand why, of all people, she'd want his pity—or why he felt inclined to give it.

Defeated, she sighed. "Not for long. She does have so much on her mind."

"Even so, do you wish to distress her?" he questioned.

"Of course not," she snapped.

"What will you tell her when you leave?"

She turned to face him. "What does it matter? You don't want me to meddle in your life, do you? You'll have what you want."

"What I want is for Sophia to be happy," he answered.

Her face paled. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes. Of course."

"How thoughtful of you."

"You come to my room in the middle of the night merely to insult me?"

"No." Her lips formed a hardened scowl. "That isn't at all why I came to you."

His mouth went dry but he dismissed her expression and tone of voice. "Then why?"

"Surely you're not that innocent, Monsieur. After all, I was in the wings during the sole performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_, and naturally I was in attendance for every rehearsal."

"What does that have to do with knocking on my door at three in the morning?"

"It's a very passionate opera, Monsieur, which many will never understand. I, however, understand passion and its need for release."

He hadn't realized that he'd backed away from her until he felt his calves press against the bed. "I'm working on a different opera now, one which concerns true love rather than deceit."

Her smile turned poisonous. "Let me guess the storyline. A wealthy estate owner inherits an orchard and with it the right to seduce a servant girl."

His heart pounded, breaths turned ragged. "Do not mock me! I love her," he answered firmly. "And I will not tolerate your insinuations that my affection for her is…is lecherous in nature."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. "Keep your voice down."

"It's my home. I will speak as loudly as I wish."

"And I suppose you will love her as you loved Christine?" she hissed.

His breath caught in his throat at her scathing words. "I realize my mistakes."

"Do you?" she challenged.

"I left Paris alone with the smell of a charred building on my clothing." He blinked, his heart continued to pound as he thought of the stage and his opera gone awry. He hadn't thought of _Don Juan Triumphant_ much since he'd arrived at the Manor. His life's work seemed just as insignificant and hellish as his existence, and to put it behind him was a blessing. "Yes, Madame, I realize my mistakes," he added softly.

"You never realized how much you had within the opera house."

He stared at her. "I knew precisely what I had. Complete solitude day after day."

She grunted. "It didn't have to be that way. If you had come to my apartment rather than Christine's, everything could have been different."

The bluntness of her words, though anticipated, still came as a surprise. He looked away from her, still unwilling to accept what she said.

"Why would you want this, Madame? With your career, your daughter, your friends. No one would have ever allowed you into their circle of friends."

"You don't know that."

"I know how the dancers talk to one another, how the managers would have reacted—" _How they did react when they saw me on the stage, my mask cast aside…_

"I'm still human," she said under her breath. "Still able to feel love and loneliness. We were both lonely, Erik. We just never confronted one another as I am now. Please, if you would only listen."

"I am listening, Madame."

"Call me Anne. I insist."

"Madame…Anne," he stammered. Her given name held far too much formality than he felt comfortable with now, but he felt the need to appease her. "If what you've said is true then you realize what I feel for Sophia," he said, surprised at his sudden calm. "And how grateful I am to know her."

He braced himself for another onslaught of insults, but she said nothing, which was almost as surprising. For several awkward moments they avoided each other's gazes while Fidelio's tail beat against the floor and counted the seconds.

"Why Sophia?"

He knew she really wanted to ask "_Why not me?_" But he didn't understand how she could have ever harbored feelings for him. They knew one another, but he'd always kept his distance. Deep inside he'd always feared falling in love with her and taking advantage of the charity she'd shown him years ago. It was better to stay away from her than risk bringing her harm. Now he realized it was what she'd wanted—and he felt nothing for her.

"Because she talks far too much, she listens to what she finds romantic, and she doesn't make me feel like an angel."

"What does she make you feel like?"

"Like a flawed man who must earn her love. Please, Madame—Anne—I am in love with Sophia, genuinely in love with her."

"How do you know you're in love with her?"

"Because it feels like nothing I've ever experienced before," he replied. "And as much as it frightens me, I still want to experience it, every single second of it. For the rest of my life."

She still refused to look at him, but she smiled wanly and sighed. "Yes, that does sound like love."

-o-

Citrine fanned her reddened face. "Stop, just stop. I can barely breathe."

Sophia sat at the edge of her seat and frowned. She'd spent almost an hour in her closest friend's home, listening intently to all of the information Citrine provided on the wonders and horrors of the male body.

"I don't understand what's so funny. I only want to know what fills it to make it bigger."

"Blood, Sophia." She opened the book again. "See? It says right here that the male sexual organ becomes engorged when a man is aroused." With an ear to ear grin, she held up her index finger and laughed.

Sophia wrinkled her nose. "Perhaps I've learned enough for one night."

"I'm only stating what the book says, but I wish it had more pictures."

Sophia's eyes widened. "More pictures?"

"Of course."

"Of what?"

"You know what! This is only showing the flaccid state. It changes size and shape, you know."

"I'm not that naïve, Citrine."

"I'm serious. It gets bigger."

"Bigger?" she said with a nervous chuckle. In the pictures this thing had looked more than adequate. "How much bigger?"

"Depends on the man."

"Well, what's the biggest?"

"That I've seen or the biggest it gets?"

"The biggest it gets, please." She feared knowing far too much about Citrine's rendezvous.

"I'm not really sure. Maybe twelve inches….perhaps a little longer."

If she hadn't been sitting down, Sophia was certain she would have collapsed. "Now that is a jest if ever I've heard one. That's almost as big as a horse, isn't it?"

"It's about the length of this book's spine, as a matter of fact. Perhaps even as thick as the spine's width."

Her mouth went dry as she attempted to imagine the book stuffed down Erik's trousers. The image was far too much and she broke out laughing. "Now that is definitely enough for today."

"Who do you think Monsieur Belmont will consult over these matters?"

Sophia sat back and closed her eyes. She was afraid that Citrine would ask this. "I have no idea."

"Do you think he knows about…well, you know." She shrugged. "I don't mean it as an insult to him," she added quickly.

"I don't know. I never asked him."

"Well, I'd ask Gabe to speak to him but it wouldn't do any good. The two of them are on the same very blank page when it comes to the female anatomy."

With a feeling that Citrine was about to divulge more information than necessary, Sophia sat up and rubbed her eyes. "In about an hour I'm going to regret not sleeping at all."

Citrine gasped. "You naughty girl! Staying awake all night to ogle dirty pictures!"

"You said it was educational!"

"It only became educational when you shared it with me." Citrine smiled slyly and wiggled her eyebrows.

In return, Sophia rolled her eyes. "I'll remember that for next time."

"Good. I was hoping there would be a next time."

Sophia pecked Citrine on the cheek. "Thank you for telling me everything and not just saying this was none of my business."

"Well, it may not be your business just yet, but it will be some day, and I can't imagine your aunt giving you much more information than close your eyes and do your best not to scream when you first see him naked."

"Is it worth screaming over?"

"Well," Citrine said. "Only if you're lucky."


	110. The Aftermath of Decisions

Paladin110

Citrine discovered a note on the kitchen table when she arrived for work in the early morning. She yawned and wondered how she would manage to stay awake for the rest of the day—or how she could ever face Monsieur Belmont after the conversation she'd had with Sophia. Despite her exhaustion, it was all worth it. She hadn't had so much fun in years, and never in her life had she enjoyed this sort of fun.

She stifled a yawn and thought about her favorite moment: The instant when Sophia's eyes widened at the thought of twelve inches of manhood. Even to her it sounded outrageous, but she could never tell Sophia such a thing. Who knew, anyhow? Perhaps her first encounter would be…

No. Heavens, no, she couldn't think such things and remain employed at Belmont Manor. She was almost certain that when she saw him next she'd steal a glimpse below the belt and wonder just how he compared to Sophia's medical book. As giddy as she felt, she was certain she'd burst out laughing the moment she saw him, and the last thing she wanted to do was insult him. Though he was quiet, she did like working in his household. He never gave her trouble—unless she started it, of course.

Through bleary eyes, she read the note from her employer and smiled to herself.

"Breakfast and lunch are unnecessary today. I shall be out." She read. While Fidelio trotted downstairs and lapped up the bowl of fresh water she had just set out, she flipped the note over and laughed out loud. "Return to bed," it concluded. She giggled to herself. "Well, yes, Monsieur, I think I will."

With the note slipped into her apron pocket, she quietly padded from the kitchen and immediately returned home, hoping the sheets were still warm and her pillow still fluffed.

-o-

Erik lay in bed and heard the kitchen door close. His stomach growled, but he had no regrets of sending his cook home for the morning. Madame Giry had said she would not be dining as she had lost her appetite some time the previous day and did not foresee its return before evening, and he expected she'd leave the manor without taking another meal in his dining room.

He didn't know what to think of her late night visit, though he honestly attempted to block it from his mind. To say the night had ended awkwardly seemed a grave understatement. Her declaration came completely unexpected, and while they'd parted ways amicably, the rejection and consequent disappointment hung in the air, heavy enough to suffocate.

An hour had passed since Madame Giry left, and Erik wondered what more he could have said. He realized, quite painfully, what it felt like to bank one's hopes on a single moment. As the sky turned from endless black to deep blue, his thoughts turned to Christine.

Bitterness still lingered, which he cursed himself for allowing. He realized that his affection for her had been false, but he still thought of her and wondered if she'd struggled to reject him or if it had been easy and natural. His heart still hurt, which seemed foolish. He didn't love her. He'd barely thought of her since he'd met Sophia, but because of Madame's visit, the past crept into the foreground of his mind. Despite little—or rather no—interest in ever seeing her again, he still wanted to know what she felt in the moment when she had chosen the young vicomte over him.

What he searched for was normalcy. Should he feel guilty for what he'd said to Madame, for how he felt when she walked away? He did feel guilty and remorseful. He felt ungrateful and unworthy of her assistance, and he wondered if she regretted helping him all those years ago when she'd opened his cage door, took him by the hand, and weaved her path through the Paris alleyways.

He wondered what she thought of that night now, over two decades later. Perhaps she now cursed the day she'd ever strolled through the traveling faire and gazed upon a pathetic monster of a child locked inside a filthy cage.

But it didn't matter what Madame thought, he realized. He wasn't in love with her, and no amount of regret could change that. Someday, just as he was no longer plagued with hatred and disgust over Christine's choice, perhaps Madame would forgive him. Maybe then she would approve of the feelings he had for Sophia. He knew it would not come easily—or soon.

The desire to clear his head grew too strong to ignore. With a heavy sigh, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and dressed.

-o-

Sleep was futile. Distorted images of book spines and male anatomy waltzed through her mind. She both adored and despised Citrine for planting these images into her thoughts. Without her friend's encouragement she never would have found such important matters so amusing.

Luckily, Philippe remained down the road at the Turro Estate, where he most likely slept without the slightest inkling that his baby sister had just discovered a rare gem within the collection of books in their home.

"You'd be angry with me, wouldn't you?" she asked the fading darkness.

Surprisingly, she wasn't as ashamed as she thought she'd feel. In fact, her new, unexpected knowledge brought her a sense of pride. This night had erased the ignorance many brides suffered on the night of their weddings. If anything, Philippe should be happy that she'd taken the initiative and educated herself. His sister had the mind of a modern and fearless woman. No more the cowering little girl; she'd become a grown woman who could walk up the stairs to her marriage bed without weak knees and a belly full of lead. No, she could encounter her new husband and welcome him, all of him.

But she didn't have a husband. She merely had romantic fantasies, and those, as far as she knew, were harmless—and completely unfulfilling. Being an optimist, however, she kept in mind that the pictures and text she'd discovered would not go to waste. In fact, she made a silent vow that she'd put Citrine's sleepless night to good use….some day.

She'd almost fallen asleep when she heard whistling outside her bedroom window. At once she sprang up in bed, first afraid that Philippe had returned early, then discarding the idea. It had to be Gabe walking the horses…only he wouldn't be this near the houses. It had to be Erik…only she'd never heard him whistle before. Perhaps it was…no, Gabe's father had no sense of mirth.

"Citrine?" She tapped on the bedroom window, and Citrine nearly jumped out of her skin.

"You little devil!" Citrine said once Sophia flung the windows open. "You were waiting for me to walk past, weren't you?"

Sophia rolled her eyes. "You may as well wear a cow bell. I heard you on account of your whistling."

"Yes, I suppose you did. Worse than a songbird, aren't I?"

"Where are you going in such a mood?"

"Monsieur Belmont left a note for me."

A stab of jealousy threatened Sophia's smile, but she held it back. "Oh?"

"He said he wouldn't be eating at home this morning or this afternoon and said I could have the early part of the day off. I suppose the same holds true for you."

Sophia frowned. "Where is he going?"

Citrine shrugged. "He didn't say and I didn't knock on his bedroom door to ask." Her tired expression turned into a sly smile.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"No reason."

"Citrine," she warned.

"You do realize that men wake with erections, don't you?"

Sophia nearly fell out of the window in an attempt to cover Citrine's mouth. "Don't say that!" she shrieked, which she realized probably drew more attention than Citrine's comment.

"It's true." Citrine jumped back, safe from harm. "Twelve-inch ones, hard as stone."

In a matter of seconds she turned a dozen shades of red, which then drained to pure white as she saw Erik round the corner. It was bad enough that he'd seemingly materialized out of nowhere—but it was worse that he was adjusting his belt.

"Oh, God," Sophia whispered. She could only hope he hadn't overheard their conversation.


	111. Open as a Book

Paladin111

This could not have been happening. In her urgency to disappear from sight, Sophia shot up, remembered the low window too late, and hit her forehead on the wooden frame. The world immediately lurched. Or was it her legs that buckled? Whatever had happened, she realized it wasn't good.

Despite blinking, the world seemed darker and blurry. Definitely not good, she concluded, unsure of whether she'd said the words aloud.

She faintly heard Citrine gasp, which was followed by an undeniable, "Oh, shit, what did you go and do that for? Bloody hell, Sophia, you could have killed yourself."

Those were the last words she heard as she slipped to the ground and closed her eyes, deciding it was best to lay still a moment and wait to see if the pain throbbing through her temples ebbed.

Strangely, she still couldn't rid her thoughts of Erik with his hand to his belt.

-o-

Citrine appeared horrified when Erik rushed up beside her and peered through the open window. The cook babbled on some, speaking in both French and her native Irish, though she spoke so rapidly that he barely understood a word of either language. The only part he picked up for certain was her apology and a great deal of talk about a book.

"I'll see to her," he said once Citrine took a breath.

She nodded, swallowed hard, then shook her head. "It's all my doing, Monsieur."

He looked her over one last time but didn't question her words. Without another glance at Citrine, he strode around the side of the house and through the front door, which was surprisingly unlocked.

"Sophia," he called, but naturally she didn't answer. He walked briskly down the hall to her bedroom and nudged the door open. All he could see of her was her bare feet, which made him feel strangely intrusive. He'd never stood in her darkened room before, and as he walked to her, he glanced around.

The last time he'd been in her home it had been under traumatic and unpleasant circumstances. He wryly smiled and realized this wasn't exactly a pleasant circumstance, but hopefully less traumatic than the first instance.

Her room was small but neatly kept. Bottles of perfume lined a small vanity, with beautiful glass containers of every size and color displayed. The bottles, he realized, propped up the papers and tiny drawings, mostly of people, some of which were tucked in the mirror's oval frame edges. It seemed strange to him that she saw where he lived and worked on a daily basis, but her home life remained a mystery to him. Being here now was strangely forbidden and arousing.

"Sophia," he said again, quieter than before.

She groaned. Or rather, she exhaled and slowly turned from her back onto her side. He knelt beside her, his heart suddenly racing with concern for her well-being. A red mark marred her perfect forehead where she'd smashed it against the top of the window.

"What happened?" she questioned.

"You hit your head," he explained.

"Oh." She sounded more miserable than he expected. "Yes. Right."

"Do you remember hitting your head?" he asked, his voice still low. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and sit on the edge of her bed with her in his lap, but instead he stared down at her and didn't move.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Unfortunately?"

"And I remember my undignified collapse as well."

His smile came unexpected, but he couldn't help himself. Very gently, as though he'd hurt her if he pressed too hard, he touched her forehead. "Did you hurt the back as well as the front?"

"I don't think so," she answered. Her eyes met his, her gaze unsteady, which he imagined it should be following a blow to the head. "But I'm afraid to move."

"Shall I help you?" he offered, hoping she would accept. He wanted to touch her, even if it was as innocent as helping her to stand.

She blinked several times, and then suddenly her visage became sheer panic and she reached for his arm. "Oh, oh, no. No, no, no," she said under her breath.

He eased her into a sitting position and kept one hand on the middle of her back, the other on her right hand.

"What is it?"

"I can't see anything," she gasped. Her hand squeezed his tighter and her lips trembled with the onset of deep-rooted fear.

His heart paused. It was inevitable that one day she'd lose her sight, but then he shook his head. There was no way she'd hit her head and blinded herself. For God's sake, he thought. She just looked him in the eye as he knelt over her. She'd looked at him, looked at him purposely.

But he still questioned her. "You can't see me?"

"No." Her voice sounded tight with the onset of barely-contained sobs.

He lifted his hand from hers and moved it toward her face. She drew back. He wished he hadn't startled her because he very much desired to place his palm against her cheek and calm her.

"Yes, you can see," he said.

"I mean yes, I can see you," she replied, her words now filled with frustration. "It's just very, very dark. The lamp is turned on, isn't it? I think I've…I've dimmed, Monsieur."

"There is a lamp on across the room, yes." He pressed his hand to her face and gently turned her cheek. Her flesh was hot and damp, and before he could comment, she gave a hiccup. A choked sob followed, but she pressed her face firmly to his hand and he smoothed the falling tears from her smooth skin.

"Does it seem terribly dark in here?" she fretted.

"From behind the bed? Yes, it does."

"Please, be honest. I can tolerate what will come."

For a moment he studied her in silence. His fingers grazed each vertebra as he caressed her back, and for the time being he hoped he provided enough comfort. Desperately he wanted to fit his lips to hers and kiss her passionately, but it wasn't appropriate. He didn't know what was appropriate at this moment, though he knew it should have included a cold compress and perhaps a good look at her pupils.

"Sophia," he said at last. "I am being honest and yes, it does seem dark in here to me. See? Over the bed, the lamp is on, but the light doesn't reach here. In fact, when you sit crouched down like that it's almost as though there isn't a lamp on at all."

"Then I haven't dimmed myself?"

"There is only one way to be sure," he said. She blinked at him, still fearful and unsure of what was happening. He would have been just as frightened as she was, but despite the bump to her head, she still sounded like herself.

"How?" she questioned. She still looked skeptical, and he offered another smile. Immediately her gaze was drawn to his lips, which seemed to make her smile back wistfully, and not without an endearing amount of sheepishness.

"Let's get off the floor first. Once you're seated near the light, we'll see how your forehead looks."

Gingerly she touched the spot just above her left eye, and a deep frown set onto her mottled face. She seemed to surrender at last with a nod, sigh, and the end of her sobs. He stood first and pulled her to her feet, which surprisingly stayed beneath her.

"Why are you still in your dress from last evening?" he questioned.

"The buttons," she answered.

His brow furrowed. "Would you…" _Like me to assist you in undressing here, in your darkened bedroom? _"Like me to fetch Mademoiselle Citrine?"

"No, thank you," she said, seemingly distracted.

"Did you sleep in the dress?"

"Yes. Pardon me? No, I mean, no!"

"Sophia?" he questioned, worried for her now more than he'd been initially.

She began to take a step and he followed alongside her, his hand firmly steadying her by the elbow. "Careful," he cautioned. "There is no rush, Sophia." He did wish she'd at least loosen the damned dress. How she could breathe while being fastened into a tightly-buttoned bodice he had no idea.

Yet, somehow she managed to gather a great deal of oxygen into her lungs. He began to protest as she dove onto her bed and fumbled with an opened book, which then toppled onto the floor. He managed to bend faster than she could and catch it before it hit the ground. Immediately it snapped shut in his grasp and he fought the urge to curse.

"You've lost your place," he said, glancing from her to the dark brown leather cover. It appeared to be a medical text, which piqued his interest. "But it seems you have the proper book selected for this evening's mishaps."

He started to hand the book to her, but a strip of satin serving as a bookmark tickled his fingers and he smiled. "Ah, I see. You haven't lost your place at all."

She'd gone completely white when he glanced at her, and he couldn't help but wonder what was so important that she'd gone to so much trouble to keep her book opened to this particular page.

"Sit," he instructed. "You're very pale."

"Please, may I have my book?" she inquired as she wrung her hands.

"Yes, but please sit, Sophia. You look as though you're about to collapse."

"Please, I must have my book. It…it belonged to my mother."

Her voice had turned high and tight, but not with threatening emotion. If he wasn't mistaken—and he didn't think he was—she was hiding something. Though what, in a plain-covered medical book there was to hide, he didn't know.

His gut lurched, and suddenly it all made sense. She was concerned about her vision, no doubt, and after the bump to the head she most likely wanted to read what it said about concussions.

With a grave nod, he opened the book to the page marked and began to turn it toward her. Midway through the motion he stopped, breath held, his gaze drawn to the illustrations. That was most definitely not an eye.


	112. From Sketch to Skin

My assumption is that you'll squee and then maybe want to hurt me. Hey, Pertie, I'm working on that M rating for you…and maybe a little for Jax and Rave too.

Paladin112

Erik didn't say anything for a long while, just as Sophia had feared. He stood no more than three feet away, the opened book balanced in the palm of his hand. His breathing had changed, deepening just like Philippe's did before he grew frustrated and stormed from the room.

He startled her when he cleared his throat and refused to look in her direction. His face had flushed with embarrassment of discovering the woman he'd thought fondly of was no better than some wretch on the street.

Now she'd done it, really done it! He would look at her in a completely new and despicable light, one that was completely unforgivable. Proper ladies didn't look at images of male anatomy. Her quest for knowledge had ended by horrifying Erik. Any moment now he would snap the book shut, toss it aside, and leave her home in favor of his own.

"Well," he said. He cleared his throat as though he couldn't bear to continue. He was far too much a gentleman to say another word, she realized. He couldn't waste his breath by commenting on this lewd material.

"My head does hurt," she said suddenly.

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind."

Unable to stand it a moment more, her face crumpled, her hands balled into tight fists, and she did the only thing she could. She prepared to explain herself.

"Sophia?" he questioned before she could begin to tell him how she wanted to be a modern woman able to care for herself and her curiosity. She wanted to tell him that it shouldn't have shocked him. She was, after all, twenty-five years of age now and had earned the right to know a little about men.

But at the very last moment she retreated into humiliation and bowed her head. The tears welled hot in her eyes, her throat tightened as though her words would rather strangle her than come out of her mouth.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm terribly, terribly sorry you've witnessed this…abomination."

Face buried in her hands, she started to cry in complete and utter humiliation for this folly, which made her feel more like a child than a woman of educated mind.

-o-

Why the discovery aroused him he wasn't quite sure, but it did—and swiftly. There was no denying how it affected him to think of her studying the text and pictures. He imagined this book hidden beneath her pillow, stashed from her brother's ever-watchful gaze. Of all the books he imagined in her grasp, this would have been the very last on the list. Sweet, innocent Sophia, curled up beneath the covers with the illustrations staring back at her. It was a surreal image, one that would remain branded in his mind for a lifetime. But he wanted it there, in his mind, where he could easily summon the thought of her finger tracing the sketches and imagining what it would be like to…

He cleared his throat and momentarily looked away from her. If only she knew what ran through his mind, if only he could guarantee that she wouldn't back away from him if he shared his own reading with her.

Indeed, his own activities were far worse. Surely Sophia had more sense than to find herself aroused by black and white drawings, cold, unfeeling pictures of women's torsos. His fingers tingled with the thought of creating his own book of pictures, only his model would be striking as she reclined before him. He shifted his weight, finding his trousers becoming increasingly uncomfortable as his thoughts blossomed into daydreams of her sitting cross-legged, her skirts pulled up to her thighs as she sat reading a book while he feverishly captured each detail on paper. He'd smudge the charcoal edges, smooth the rough lines until it matched her perfectly. Then, if she'd allow it, he'd brush his fingers over the curves of her body, explore the contours and make certain everything on her body had graced his sketch.

The book nearly slipped from his grasp, and for the first time he realized he was breathing like a well-run horse.

She murmured something so fast and so quiet that he missed what she'd said.

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind."

Their awkward conversation turned to silence once more. Why exactly did she have this, he wondered? He glanced from her to the book, and his brow furrowed. By the look of her dress, she hadn't slept much. There were wrinkles, but not nearly enough to show she'd spent the night crumpled in her gown.

He almost wanted to laugh at the thought of her, dressed for dinner with a scandalous tome in hand, but he thought it far too rude. She'd gone pale from her mortification, no doubt, and she'd never forgive him if he laughed at her now. This needed to be dealt with carefully.

Slowly he lifted his gaze and studied her, unable to guess what she was thinking now.

"Well," he said. _Quite an interesting read. That's not a bit impressive. What in the hell are you looking at in this book? May I turn the page and see what comes next?_

He couldn't possibly finish his thoughts aloud without damaging her. Cocking his head to the side, he studied her carefully. She didn't meet his eye, and he didn't want to speak until she looked at him.

Her gaze slowly lifted, the determination on her face drifting away. She looked odd and unfamiliar to him, and he wasn't sure if the bump to the head or the book was to blame.

"Sophia?" he whispered.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, which alarmed him so greatly that he froze and stared at her, unsure of what to do. Somehow, with barely a word, he'd shamed her to tears. It appalled him as he hated, above all things, the sound of someone crying and Sophia's heartache and embarrassment wrenched his insides.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm terribly, terribly sorry you've witnessed this…abomination." She pressed her hands to her temples and let out a strained cry of barely suppressed agony. "Oh, please don't look at it any more. It gives me a headache."

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, though it didn't much matter what gave her a headache.

She pointed at the book, her lips still quivering, her cheeks lined with tracks of tears. "Please, I don't want you to think—"

He softly closed the book and looked at the spine with its title and author in large, gold lettering, before he set it aside. "Sit," he commanded. "For God's sake, Sophia, sit down at once before you fall and hit your head again."

She jumped at his harsh tone and appeared puzzled by his lack of acknowledgement toward her book, but obeyed nonetheless. As she sat perched on the bed, she continued to stare at the offending material, her eyes still filled with tears. He watched her shake her head as though to scorn her reading material.

"Has your vision doubled?" He knelt down in front of her and moved the lamp to the edge of the bedside table in order to properly view her injury.

"No," she said softly, her gaze cast down.

With his index finger he tilted her chin up. Her skin felt heated to his touch, which concerned him. "But your head hurts?"

It took her a moment before she replied, her gaze still cast aside. "Only a little." She paused and gulped down a breath. "I am very sorry."

He searched her mottled face. "For what? A medical book?"

She seemed surprised, then even more ashamed of herself. "It's not really that medical. It's too…intense…for study of the educational kind."

He couldn't help but smile and show her he knew what she was doing and he didn't much care. "You give your true intentions away, then."

She started to cry again, which sent him into a panic. "Sophia, I didn't mean—"

"I've never looked before," she squeaked. "And I never will again. Not for as long as I live."

Without speaking, he shook his head and sat beside her. He waited to see if she'd cry harder or catch her breath. When it looked as though his presence comforted her, he hooked his arm around her waist and gave a tentative squeeze. Slowly she settled down and rested the side of her head gingerly against his chest.

"May I ask where you found this?" he asked, half-wondering if it had come from his own shelf.

"My parents," she answered. "They had many medical books from their physician. Philippe never got rid of them, though I suppose it's because he never looked through them."

He grunted, preoccupied by the scent of her hair. Each time he breathed—and he was breathing harder than ever now—he captured part of her and drew her into his lungs, into his hot blood.

"I just wanted to know," she said at last.

His fingers caressed the length of her arm in a long, lazy rhythm. Now that she'd calmed down considerably, he caressed her temple with his lips, inhaled harder until he only smelled her, until the warmth of her flesh became his as well.

"Have you learned enough, Sophia?" he asked hoarsely.

"More than is safe for one night," she answered.

"I'd like to know a little more," he said under his breath.

She stared at him, her breath almost matching his. She leaned into him, allowed more of the contact he craved from her. "But…wouldn't you already know all of the parts?"

He smiled at her innocence, grateful that they both lacked experience. He knew for certain that he couldn't have sat beside her with such ease if she'd been a woman of worldly physical experience.

"Perhaps not by name, but I know how these parts work."

"Then…?"

"I'd like to know what is on the next page," he mumbled.

She gasped and would have sat upright had his arm not been around her. When she turned to look at him, he couldn't stand it a moment longer. All these thoughts and images of her had intrigued him, stirred him up and left only a chance to unravel.

He placed the palm of his hand against her face to turn her toward him. She didn't protest as he nuzzled her, as their lips parted and they exchanged harsh breaths.

"Sophia," he whispered, his lips barely grazing hers. "Sophia, I know you don't want to make love, but please, please let us…" She sat closer, her hand on his thigh. Only a hand's breadth away and she'd be where he needed to feel her, where books could not teach of pleasure.

"Touch?" she finished.

"Yes," he hissed. "Yes."


	113. The First of Many

I'm going to take a phrase from HDKingsbury, MadLizzy, and JaxBoo and call this Rated N for Naughty! Feedback is appreciated. Thanks!

Paladin113

Sophia never had a moment to catch her breath, but she didn't complain. Each second filled her with exquisite new sensations that started from her lips and moved down her body.

They kissed harder, tongues pressing, searching, kneading each other in a fervent, sensual dance like nothing she'd ever experienced. Her head tilted to the side, the bump that had rendered her senseless now forgotten. Pain no longer throbbed through her temples. In her range of emotion, she didn't have room for pain. All she wanted to experience was Erik.

His broad hand started at her neck, rubbing her covered flesh, his touch hot and urgent over her shoulder. She closed her eyes as the dizzying assault on her sanity continued, this time in the form of his knuckles brushing the curve of her breast. She knew what she wanted, but didn't know how to ask him to touch the hardened, waiting peak.

At last he caressed her, an accidental flick of his thumb over hardened flesh. She half-moaned, half-sighed against his lips, and he kissed her harder, one hand snaking around her back to smash her against him.

"Oh, Sophia," he whispered, his voice harsh, deep, and alluring.

Her movements mirrored his, the electricity between them frantic with unexplainable need. She groped his arm, allowed her fingers to explore the hard, hot surface of his chest through his lawn shirt. An awkward moment of searching finally led her to the small, flat disc.

He shivered, his nipple instantly hardening to her touch. At last he gave her what she truly needed in that moment and circled the hardened tip through her clothing, the layers adding to the much-desired friction.

"I need to touch you," he breathed, his lips against her throat. "Really touch you."

Fingers skimmed hot, smooth flesh, then a patch of thick hair as she explored lower. Another button came loose, and she dipped lower until her fingers tangled in coarse chest hair.

As she touched him, he opened the back of her dress and kissed her newly exposed shoulder. Hot, moist lips created a soft trail down her sensitive flesh. She raised a hand and stroked his hair, her head tilted back in a moment of pure enjoyment. He sucked at her collarbone, licked at her throat in fiery, firm strokes.

Breaths came harder, accompanied by soft whispers and moans. She couldn't tell if they were her moans or his, but she hoped they came from both of them. His lips touched low on her neck, and she realized that he'd managed to untie her laced-up corset and draw her breast nearly from its confinement.

She glanced down at his thick fingers, dark against the pinkish white of her chest. A rush tingled through her, the tremble in her hands increasing as she gently pulled on his hair, unsure if they should continue.

"You feel like silk," he murmured. "Warm, living silk."

She knew he wasn't ready to stop, not here, not now. And neither was she.

-o-

Want became need. He didn't want to touch her, he needed to touch her, with his fingers, with his lips, with his tongue. His hands trembled with the desire to caress her throat, cup her breast in his palm.

"Tell me no, Sophia, if you want me to stop. Tell me and I will…obey."

Her breath, hot and ragged, tickled his ear, her tongue flicking out to touch him as she sighed. "Don't stop, not yet."

With her permission, he fumbled to pull the laces of her bodice free and touch his lips to her breasts. It excited him to think of kissing her there, rolling his tongue along her nipples, sucking on her flesh. Fabric ripped against his strong hands and they both stilled, the only sound in the room their harsh breathing. Erik found himself shocked by his aggression until she giggled, her voice gentle music in his ear.

"I'll fix it later," she whispered, her lips against his, her fingers working deftly to undo each button. She yanked at his shirt until it came free of his trousers, then she smoothed her hand down his chest to his belly, fingers sinking into the dusting of hair that fanned across his stomach. She paused inches above his navel, seemingly miles from where he throbbed for her attention.

"Ah." Sophia mewed, her back arched as he cupped the fullness of her breast. She fit into the palm of his hand, her nipple hard as it stabbed against his flesh. He'd never felt anything quite like it before, so perfect and…natural, as though this were exactly where a man and woman belonged.

Slowly they reclined, her hands exploring his torso. Fingernails grazed his sides, fingertips pressed to his ribs and his hardened nipples, which reacted immediately to her touch. Barely confined within his trousers, he grew harder for her, impossibly hard and prepared for the slightest of touches.

They landed softly on the bed together, entwined and tangled in a knot neither of them wished to escape. Mouths touched, tongues searched, hands explored bare flesh. He kissed her deeply, capturing soft moans that turned louder and more urgent with each circle his finger made around her nipple.

His head dipped lower, tearing his lips from hers and kissing down her throat and chest until he reached the swell of her breast and the dark pink point, hard and waiting for his mouth. As he kissed her there, he listened to her breaths come faster, louder, more excited. He reached for her hand and silently encouraged her to unbutton his trousers.

-o-

My God, he was hard as stone through the rough wool of his trousers. Sophia didn't know where to focus her attention: On her own throbbing body or the appendage she couldn't see but could feel—and hear through his groans—that he wanted her to touch him.

"I—I don't know what to do," she murmured.

Pleasure radiated from her nipple, which he'd caught between his teeth, and continued to pulse through her abdomen. Her toes curled, thighs squeezed together against the growing tension she couldn't and didn't want to stop.

With trembling hands she fumbled with the first button and heard it pop open. Erik's hips thrust forward, pushing her fingers against flesh she still couldn't see, only feel through his clothing.

He nipped, sucked and licked at her flesh in a rhythm that matched her harsh breaths. Before she realized what was happening, the pressure in her lower abdomen exploded and stole the breath from her lungs. She gasped, writhed against his touch as he caressed her face, traced her lips with a single finger, tugged at her sensitive, throbbing flesh with his lips and tongue.

"Oh," she gasped. "Oh, I don't know what I just…" She swallowed hard, her body now boneless and sated, her heart beating wildly. She thought she'd pass out from the sheer thrill of it, this unexplainable phenomena.

Erik looked up at her, his lips just below her swollen, damp nipple—damp with his saliva, with the mixture of their tongues now flavoring her breast. "Have you ever…felt this before?" he asked.

She shook her head, embarrassed by the way her exposed body looked, by how it had reacted to his touch. Fear crept into her, and she wondered what he thought of her until he smiled and kissed her tenderly, nuzzling and rubbing at her breast. His eyes remained heavily lidded as he stared up at her.

"It's called climax," she said, having read it in her book, which had been shoved aside in their urgency.

"The first," he said, a sense of pride in his voice. "Of many I wish to give you."

She blinked at him. "Have you…? You haven't climaxed, have you?"

He kissed her fingers and crawled up her body until his lips fit over hers and his tongue pushed past her teeth and stroked hers. She felt him hard against her belly, heard the rasp of his breath as he murmured between kisses, and quietly invited her to touch him, all of him. He swore he wouldn't claim her virginity, that he would only do as she asked him.

"How do I touch you?" The buttons came free, one after the other. "Show me how."

"Like this, sweet Sophia." His fingers closed over hers and guided her into his trousers, where she startled at the feel of him. Their eyes met as he wrapped her fingers around his girth and she stroked him as he guided her up and down, a steady, urgent rhythm.

"There," he said in her ear, reclining. His eyes closed and he swallowed hard, breath hissing past his teeth. "Yes, right there, just like that. Yes, like that."

Sophia sat partially up and watched him, all of him. She studied how his face contorted with each swift stroke, how his back arched and hips worked with her movements. She marveled at the feel of his flesh in her hand, at the heat of him, at the unexpected softness of skin stretched taut. Thankfully, he wasn't the length of the book's spine. She knew for certain she would have fainted if he'd been twelve inches in length, but she didn't think he fell short by much. It didn't matter to her. It excited her again merely to feel him and see him, the flesh and blood which the book hadn't quite explained.

It hadn't mentioned smell, either, but she inhaled the scent of their mixed arousal, the perfume of one body sated and another on the brink of completion. She sucked in deep breaths, filled her lungs, her senses, with their sex, with their need.

"I'm not hurting you?" she questioned as he encouraged her to pump him faster, harder than she'd originally done.

He shook his head, a smile curving his lips upward.

Springy, dark hair surrounded the base of his length, which she found unexpected. The book hadn't mentioned hair or the dark, plum-colored appearance of the head, or how the shaft wrinkled slightly with each stroke.

"Oh," he groaned, eyes tightly squeezed shut. His hips lifted, drawing her hand down to the root hidden beneath a thatch of hair, then back to the crown. He placed his hand on her thigh, rubbed her firmly, urgently. His fingers crept beneath her skirts, caressed her ankle, her shin…

Her knees parted, allowed him to feel the soft, sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. She realized, half-embarrassed, half-mesmerized, that dampness pooled between her legs, and the ache that had exploded only moments ago built once more.

"We can't go much further," she whispered, hating the sound of her voice, the interruption of their experience.

He nodded reluctantly, his eyes remaining closed. "I know."

His hips worked faster and his hand paused on the middle of her thigh. His chest ceased to rise and fall rapidly, his muscles tensed, and to her surprise, hot, thick liquid spurted from him. He groaned, the thrust of his hips coming to a halt, his body caught in the same harsh spasms she'd experienced only moments earlier.

With his hand against her back, he pulled her toward him and kissed her again, hard and welcomed. Sweat made his forehead slick, his hair damp as she ran her fingers through it. Her eyes closed, and she savored the feel of him, the first man she'd ever touched and been touched by. No matter what Karl Turro had done, she would always consider Erik Belmont her first sexual companion—her lover. Such contrast between soft lips and hardened sex, such beauty between them. She didn't want to let him go, to end one perfect moment of flesh on flesh, heart beat against heart beat.

Slowly her eyes opened and she found him studying her face. He looked different to her, perhaps more relaxed.

"We are complete," he panted.

She smiled, and he kissed her again.


	114. Self Education

Paladin114

Sophia didn't want to move from her place on the bed. With Erik's shoulder as a pillow and his fingers serving as a comb through her long hair, she found herself content. Each warm breath caressed her forehead where pain still lightly throbbed. Part of her reasoning for remaining so still was the pain, which didn't seem bad if she reclined.

"Are you cold?" he whispered.

"No," she replied, snuggling closer, comforted by his touch and the smell of his masculine body cradling her feminine form. She never would have guessed that arms could entwine with such tenderness, such perfection.

"Good," he answered, his voice dreamy and thick with sleep.

"Didn't want to move?" she teased.

He grunted, fingers lazily stroking her skull before he lifted her hair from her shoulder and allowed it to fall down strand by strand. The gentle tug against her scalp gave her the most exquisite sensation she'd ever experienced, a toe-curling tingle. As long as he didn't touch the bump that had formed on her forehead, she didn't mind his gentle attention.

"What does that mean, hmm? A grunt?"

"It means not really."

"You know," she said. "I've been thinking."

"You're always thinking."

"Well, that's a good thing, isn't it?"

He squeezed her tighter. "I'm not always certain."

She giggled and lifted her chin to see his expression. He appeared amused, which she'd never seen on his face. 'Playful' rarely seemed like an apt description of Erik Belmont, yet he looked almost boyish in nature. Each second she looked at him seemed to sink her deeper and deeper into pure bliss of the storybook variety. Doves would soar, angels would sing, church bells in the distance would play the sweetest music she'd ever heard.

Or perhaps she'd tell him what she'd been thinking.

"I was thinking about the word seed."

"Excuse me?"

"Seed," she clarified.

"Spring," he murmured. "It will be nice to see the manor with the trees in bloom and the ivy alive. It's been a long time since I've lived in the country. I'd forgotten the smell of freshly cut grass, how the house smells with the windows open."

"No," she said, drawing the word out longer than necessary. "I mean you're correct, of course, but that isn't what I meant. Not those kind of seeds. I mean the….well, you know."

His shoulder tensed beneath her head. "I'm afraid I don't."

Her lips pursed, but it wouldn't keep her quiet. She'd need to have her mouth sewn shut to keep her from continuing. "A…man's seed."

He'd stopped breathing the moment she elaborated, which immediately turned her cheeks and neck to fire. Never one to fear words, she shrank at her boldness, wondering if perhaps now wasn't quite the time to voice her observation that she thought a better description was salad dressing.

-o-

Erik stared up at the ceiling and wondered if this conversation was really a dream. It didn't seem possible that he lay beside Sophia in her bed, but now that seemed at least feasible while this sudden turn in conversation felt more like a nightmare.

Her inability to censor herself seemed to rub off on him as well. "I still don't understand," he said.

"It wasn't what I expected."

He hesitated, wondering if he truly wanted to know what she'd expected. His only reply was a weak, cowardly, "Ah."

"I really thought it would be more like…well, poppy seeds."

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Poppy seeds?"

"Yes, I always thought it was literally seeds shooting out from…there. But it's not it's more of a…"

He held his breath, partly horrified and partly intrigued. She seemed like an entirely new person sprouted from the innocence of the old Sophia.

"Concoction."

Unintentionally he chuckled and buried his face in her hair.

"Which, if I may say so, is quite frankly making me hungry just thinking about poppy seeds and salad dressing."

"This has turned into a highly inappropriate conversation."

She moved onto her side and furrowed her brow, apparently taking his words seriously. She drew further away from him and carefully looked him over. "Why is it inappropriate?"

"Honestly, I'm not certain," he answered, afraid he'd offended her with his teasing. He wanted to stay with her, couldn't imagine a more perfect scenario than the one they'd spontaneously created. Now, all he needed was to fall asleep at her side and wake with her still in his arms.

"You're not certain but you think it's inappropriate?"

"Sophia, I never thought I'd hear this from anyone, let alone you."

"Are you…angry?"

He kissed the side of her head. "Why would I be angry?"

"You seem quiet," she replied. Her brow knit with worry. "Or am I speaking enough for the two of us?"

He closed his eyes, tempted to fall asleep beside her. "Continue."

"Are you sure?"

"Mmmhmm. I want to hear your voice."

"Then may I ask you a question?"

"Yes, so long as it's not about food." He kissed her again to make certain she knew he was only teasing.

"How did you know what to do?"

He paused and considered her question a moment. "Instinct, I suppose."

"Instinct?" Her voice sounded meek. "Then why don't I have such instinct?"

"You do," he assured her.

"But then, how did you know how to…I had no idea that a man who did what you did would feel so wonderful." Her voice had turned high, perhaps a sign of her embarrassment. "It's like you'd… done it before."

Despite her innocence, he heard the unintentional insult in her words. She knew no better, he realized, and he'd admitted in a roundabout way to having no experience, but now she blatantly questioned his manhood.

"I did what I wanted to do," he answered.

"Is that how you also knew how to show me what brought you pleasure? Instinct?"

He winced before she finished.

-o-

Sophia finished her question in barely a whisper and chewed on her lower lip. Basking in the afterglow of their intimacy, she'd wanted to know more and more about what they had done together, to assure herself that they hadn't done anything wrong. Words, it seemed, were her greatest enemy.

Erik had become rigid beneath her, his breaths hard and steady, the hand that had recently stroked her hair now balled into a fist where it lay on the pillow beside her.

"It was," he started and abruptly paused. "Not instinct on my part. It's more likely experience."

"Oh," she said, unsure of what else to say. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and she licked her lips. Just when she needed something else to say, words escaped her. Discomfort washed over her and she gnawed on her lip. "What kind of experience?"

If it were possible, he stiffened even more. "Personal, intimate experience," he said, his voice hinting at the first spark of anger. "Is that what you wanted to know, Sophia? How many times I've…done this to myself?"

She started to shake her head but realized he wasn't paying attention to her.

"Many times," he seethed. "What would you expect from a man who had never touched a woman until tonight? Is that what else you wished to know? If I were Don Juan? I'm not, Sophia, I'm no such thing. I am thirty-seven years of age, and you are the very first to ever…allow me…" He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing, his anger faltering, mood plummeting. "I know of your body only what I've read in books, just as you knew of mine because of your studies, only I didn't merely study. I indulged."

She sat up and clamped her hand over his lips, which startled him into silence. He appeared livid, if only for a heartbeat, before he merely stared at her, his gaze filled with shame.

"Stop," she said, her voice more harsh than she'd intended. "Please, just stop."

To her surprise, he made no attempt to protest. The wild, pained look in his eyes subsided. His lashes lowered, closing out the pale green pools reflecting her face. He'd gone unnaturally white, the relaxation she'd seen earlier turned to pinched lines between his eyes and along his forehead.

"I'm so sorry," she said, hoping her accepted her apology. "I never meant it like that, to insult you."

He turned his head to the side. "It's what I am," he answered bitterly. "A novice."

"Then we belong only to each other," she said softly. Timidly she placed her hand over his and looked up to meet his gaze.

He eyed her with suspicion. "Do we?"

"I'd like to think so," she answered dreamily.

"You're not disappointed in me, in what I've done?"

She tilted her head to the side. "It doesn't seem like you've done anything wrong, at least not to me. I understand that others may disagree, but if you know what you're doing you could always teach me, couldn't you? So that I could…help."

A tingle ran down her spine, and for a moment she could have sworn that someone else spoke on her behalf. The boldness in her voice surely belonged to someone else, and the words couldn't be her own. If her parents ever intended to roll over in their graves, they would have been in constant motion once they heard her words.

"I think you would have figured it out on your own."

"No, I don't think so. I didn't know what to do with your thing besides stare, and that wouldn't have gotten us very far."

"No, I don't suppose it would have." He settled back beside her, his hand relaxed beneath hers. For a long while he studied her face as though judging if she told the truth or had spun a lie for his benefit. Eventually his expression softened and he offered a cautious smile. "If you want my honesty, Sophia, then I'll tell you that your soft touch was the most wonderful sensation I've ever experienced."

She was certain she glowed with pride. Grinning, she ran her fingers along his ear and caressed his jaw. A strange mix of giddiness and delayed understanding filled her as she realized that these lips had touched her breasts, her neck, and her shoulders. These beautiful, soft lips, had triggered a sensation inside of her that she'd never known her body was capable of feeling. She wanted to reach down and touch where he had touched, but she couldn't, especially with him beside her. Somehow she understood that it wouldn't be nearly as pleasurable.

"Sometimes," she whispered, "I feel as though everyone in the world knows more than I do. I feel as though I'll marry one day and be a terrible, inexperienced wife. I'll bear children and be a terrible, inexperienced mother. Tonight I felt like I could be good at this—this love. The sounds you made, what happened between us…you made it perfect and special. I don't care if it's because you've done it to yourself before. You showed me, and I'm the first for you, just as you're the first for me."

"And we haven't done anything," he mumbled.

"It was more than I ever imagined," she said, her face flushing with embarrassment.

He leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead. Long, steady fingers combed through her hair, traced the slope of her nose. With heavy-lidded eyes, he looked her over, watched her with cat-like interest in its conquest. She thought for a moment that he'd seize her with his lips and at once they'd be clawing at one another again. Instead, he reclined.

"Forgive me for my words, Sophia, but I don't want to talk anymore. I just want to stay here a little longer, hold your hand, and close my eyes."

Content with the warmth of his body, she snuggled up closer and shut her eyes. "Are you angry with me?"

He grunted. "No," he answered at last. "Merely unaccustomed to your curiosity."

"Good. I had no intention of ruining this night."

He nestled his face in her hair. "You are incapable of ruining a single minute of my life. Now, hush, beautiful Sophia. Hush."

She smiled again, having no desire to continue the conversation, especially when she could run her fingers along his chest and feel his breath on her scalp. The beat of his heart and the sound of his breath said enough for her. She knew he loved her and she loved him.


	115. Thoughts of Marriage

Paladin115

Much later than he'd originally anticipated, Erik sent Gabe with word to the Turro Estate that he wished to pay a visit. While he waited for the stable hand to return, he rummaged through the kitchen in search of food.

For the majority of his life he'd been proficient at cooking—or rather he'd managed to keep from starving. With no desire to actually stand over the stove, he spread blackberry preserves over slices of bread and took them into the parlor.

The house felt cold and damp, as Citrine hadn't yet come in to work for the morning. He shivered as he started a fire in the hearth and sat down on a cold chair with his breakfast, wishing he'd at least made coffee or tea. A robe also seemed sensible, but once he sat he had no desire to return upstairs.

"Cold and thirsty," he muttered before he took a bite of his breakfast. Whole, tender blackberries melted in his mouth with the first taste of preserves on day-old bread. He shut his eyes and gave a barely audible groan of satisfaction. "But well fed."

He sat back and enjoyed breakfast alone, wishing Sophia had joined him. Still, it pleased him to think of her curled up beneath the soft blankets with her quilt up to her chin. She breathed so softly, almost like breathy sighs. It had intrigued him to watch her lay with her face toward his, her lips slightly parted. When he'd woken, he'd studied her for one, drowsy moment. To soothe her, he'd run his fingers through her hair and watched her smile.

That dreamy smile had made him certain of his feelings for her. He wanted to always make her smile, to make her laugh and sigh and moan, as she had that evening. All of his life he'd preferred the discourse of a violin, but no instrument compared to Sophia, and the way she made him feel when she touched him or sighed deeply.

It hadn't seemed possible for one person to make another person this content. With Christine, whom he didn't want to think about in his moment of blackberry-filled happiness, he'd always felt as though she could bring joy into his life if only she would listen to him. With Sophia everything was different, almost unexplainable. He never would have looked at her and thought of her as an ideal mate, but while she lay in his arms he wondered how long he should wait—or if he should wait at all—before he asked her to marry him.

Fidelio licked the back of his hand and startled him out of fantastic daydreams. He rubbed the back of the wolfhound's neck and smiled.

"A dog first, then a wife, then…then we'll see."

His heart beat faster, thumped against his ribs as he considered the possibilities of what lay ahead. The chill in the room disappeared and was followed by a rush of heat that covered him completely. Fidelio didn't seem to notice anything save for the taste of blackberries smeared across his master's knuckles.

The elation swiftly dissipated as he considered who he'd have to ask for permission before he asked Sophia to marry him. Philippe Dupree could very well stand in the way of happiness and forbid him to ask for Sophia's hand.

Then what would he do?

Food suddenly seemed of little interest. He needed to know if he could take her as his wife or if Philippe would deny him. Or at least disapprove. In a way he didn't much care if Philippe told him he would not see his sister married to a composer. If he wanted her, he'd have her with a ring on her finger. Already he could picture her -- long, dark hair framing her face, a light blue wedding gown to complement her complexion and hair. He could almost feel the satin-covered buttons beneath his fingertips on their wedding night.

His hand balled into a fist and he gently hit the side table. He'd made his decision. She would be his—if she'd have him.

-o-

Sabine drizzled honey onto a biscuit while Philippe stood beside her and watched. Laure had taken the opportunity to sleep in since Philippe had promised to help Sabine with everything in the house. The little girl's eyes had bulged with disbelief followed by delight in her good fortune.

"I'll need a list of your normal duties so that I may assist in whatever way possible," he said as he leaned against the counter.

"I've told you a hundred times that it's unnecessary."

"I'm here and I'm helping you. That's all there is to it."

She smiled but didn't look at him. The understanding he thought that they'd come to the previous night no longer existed. "You have the head of a pig."

"So do you."

"Only because you're determined to fight me every step of the way."

"I'm not fighting you. I'm helping you."

"Your employer won't appreciate you staying here much longer, will he?"

"I'll stay as long as I can." It frustrated him that she continued to concern herself with his wellbeing when his life seemed secondary to hers.

"And spoil me," she murmured.

"And watch out for you." He stepped closer, tempted to place his hand on her shoulder or wrap his arm around her waist. "They'll notice soon."

Honey pooled on the serving plate as she stared at her outstretched hand. "I know, and then I'll leave."

"You could…"

"No, I couldn't tell them. They wouldn't believe me."

"I think Madame Turro would believe you," he said quietly.

"Philippe, you know as well as I do that it's not right to upset them over this."

He stiffened. "Sabine, I'm upset over this. Terribly upset over this."

"You should concern yourself with business, not me. The orchards can be managed, but I'm beyond hope."

Infuriated, he grabbed her by the shoulders. Her spoon clattered onto the plate, unnoticed.

"Philippe," she gasped.

He searched her face, his jaw twitching in frustration. "No," he said. "I won't listen to this…this rubbish he put into your head."

"It's not what he put in my head that concerns me."

Anger and embarrassment burned his face. "Marry me," he blurted out.

Her eyes narrowed, and she half-smiled, which gave him the impression that she pitied him. "For my honor?"

"It doesn't have to be for honor," he answered quietly.

"For love, then? Will you look me in the eye and blatantly say that you love me?"

"No," he told her, holding her gaze. "Because I don't, not yet."

"But you could?"

"I have no idea, but I'm willing to try. If you're willing to do the same."

She remained guarded, a woman injured inside and out. "Why would you do this?"

"Would you rather I laughed at you? That I told you this is all your fault, as some would have you believe?"

She turned from him and mumbled, "I've heard it all before. And perhaps this is punishment for scorning girls in similar situations."

His heart ached with the worst kind of pain, a pain of complete bewilderment. He didn't know what compelled him, but he couldn't deny his feelings.

"I've told you already that you don't need to worry about me, that I want to do this. I'll have my own home, my own responsibilities. Marry me and I'll…I'll build you a house. Or better yet I'll give you the overseer's house and I'll live elsewhere if that's what you want."

"What's in it for you, Philippe? Surely no man is this generous without wants of his own."

"Do you want the truth?"

She nodded and took a step back as though she feared he'd touch her. Anger flashed through him like a bolt of lightning. He'd never touch her without her permission, silent or otherwise.

"I want the convenience of it," he snapped. "A name for your child, food on my table, prepared by the wife I married for no other reason than to have someone do women's work. Not a bad exchange, is it? You keep your respect as a decent woman, I have what I want."

She looked hard at him, her face twisted in a scowl. "I said I wanted the truth."

As much as he attempted to hold his anger close, he faltered and closed his eyes. She wouldn't tolerate his stomping about.

"Because I can't stand to think of you alone," he answered. "And quite selfishly, I don't want to be alone either. Sophia has matured…or she's merely doing this to drive me mad since she knows I still think of her as my baby sister, not my adult sister. She won't be there much longer and then what will I do? Be a bachelor on the other side of the orchard while you'll be a shunned mother attempting to support a newborn baby and your little sister. Together…I just think it would be easier, I suppose. And after what happened…"

"Yes?" she prompted.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. "I thought he was a respectable gentleman and a match for my sister. If I'd ever known he was like that I would have castrated him. I wish I'd been there for you."

"You didn't know."

"But I should have known."

"Why?"

"I just should have." He closed his eyes again and pinched the bridge of his nose. "And now, in my own selfish way, I want to make it up to you and have the benefit of a wife at home. How is that for being a gentleman and doing what's right?"

"You're a romantic, then?"

He opened his eyes and found her reluctantly smiling.

"A romantic? Never. A pain in the ass, according to my sister."

Her smile turned genuine. "Yes," she said. "I see that." Her cheeks reddened and she crossed her arms, which made him want to pull her close and kiss her hard. He didn't. He merely stared at her with hardened eyes that masked his emotions. "Charming, Philippe, very charming."


	116. Plans

NDBRs: There are a few changes in the first part.

Paladin116

"How often would you expect me to come to your bed?"

Philippe had been comfortably sitting down to breakfast when Sabine's question made him choke on his coffee. He stared at her a moment, his eyes tearing up as he attempted to catch his breath.

"Excuse me?"

"How often would you expect me to come to your bed? Or would you come to mine?" She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms, her eyes narrowed as she stared at him.

He lowered his eyes and stared at the contents of his clay mug, unsure of what to say or how she expected him to react. The manly part of him that longed for feminine attention wanted to tell her every damned night, perhaps twice a night, but the gentlemanly side of him didn't expect the marriage to be consummated on the wedding night, if ever.

Convenience for her, he thought to himself, and companionship for himself. He would take care of her and expect her to take care of him, but he didn't expect intimacy as part of the bargain. The thought of looking elsewhere, however, sickened him. He didn't want to be a man who bought or roamed the streets in search of pleasure. That wasn't how his father had been, that wasn't what he'd imagined for himself.

"I honestly haven't thought about it," he lied. He'd thought endlessly of what it would be like to caress her bare shoulders and back, to trace the curve of her hips and hold her smooth, warm body in his arms.

"Would you at least wait until after the birth?"

"Yes," he answered at once, noting her concern. "Of course." If there was one thing he knew for certain it was that he had no desire to make love to her while she carried another man's child, especially Turro's. "I suspect you'd want the same, wouldn't you?"

She nodded but didn't reply. He couldn't tell if she was being honest with him, but at the same time he couldn't ask for her word when he wouldn't give her his own.

"Are you accepting my offer?" he questioned.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Of marriage," he said as though it were blatantly obvious.

She gave a snort, which made his face white hot with embarrassment. Nothing was quite as mortifying as a woman who laughed in a man's face. "I don't think it's an offer yet."

He rubbed his chin and attempted to hide his smile, seeing the playful twinkle in her eyes. She didn't mock him, but she wanted to rile him. It didn't feel right to be attracted to her when she argued with him, yet he was certain he'd never wanted her or anyone else more. He'd been fond of her for a long time and knew he could easily fall in love with her, every aggravating bit of her.

"It's an offer, just not a very appealing offer," he said.

She turned away from him. "Honestly, I didn't expect a proper proposal."

His smile became a frown of pure frustration, as he didn't know how to approach her. He paused a moment and wondered if her tone was meant to be scathing. Only a moment ago she'd been friendly and playful. The change in demeanor seemed unjustified. "From me, you mean?"

"No," she said quickly. "From anyone."

His jaw tensed, and he watched her as she rearranged the creamer and sugar bowl. He knew that she ignored him on purpose, which only made him more determined to garner her complete attention.

"My apologies, mademoiselle, but I've never proposed to a woman before."

"Of course not."

Blood rushed into his cheeks and heated his face. He fought to control his breathing and feign calm since he had no desire to show her what she did to him. Both of his hands slid beneath the table and clenched.

"If I were to properly ask for your hand, would you agree?"

She glanced at him from over her shoulder. "Are you sure you've never asked a woman for her hand? You make it terribly romantic, Monsieur Dupree."

"I would only be romantic for you," he replied dryly.

"How thoughtful and kind of you."

He inched his chair away from the table, prepared to reach for her. The blood in his veins pumped hot and fast, every instinct telling him to go to her. "Yes, it is."

Her body tensed, stilled at the sound of his would-be approach. He watched her and wondered how Karl had first addressed her, if he'd waited until she turned her back and then dragged her to his bedchamber. Or if he'd forced her to the floor in the dining room. How had he forced his child into her womb?

The thought did nothing to calm him. All he felt was a deeper sense of urgency in righting what he knew in his heart he'd inadvertently ignored: A dangerous man. He'd do whatever was necessary to give Sabine, her unborn child, and her sister a decent life.

"Is there enough time for a proper proposal?"

She took a deep breath, but her voice still trembled when she spoke. "If I wanted anything from you at all, Philippe, it would be the promise of a marriage, not a business transaction." A ragged breath escaped, and she cleared her throat. "But I don't want anything from you."

"Good," he replied. "No expectations. I suspect I can't disappoint you, then."

"Probably not," she snapped. She didn't look at him, but he knew she had more to say to him. Silently he sat and tried not to stare at her. "I've only…been…with one man. If that's what you would call it. I doubt you'd disappoint me as long as you didn't…" Her voice became choked with tears, and she couldn't finish her sentence.

His heart sank, and before he knew it, he was on his feet and by her side.

-o-

Sophia knocked on Citrine's door and held her breath as she waited for an answer. Across the yard she could see Rene Monteclair preparing a carriage for Erik, whom she knew had intended to spend the late morning and early afternoon with his mother at the Turro Estate. She was happy for him, especially since she'd seen the light in his eyes, the importance of finding the woman he'd thought had abandoned him.

Just as she turned toward Citrine's door, it opened and her friend pulled her inside.

"Tell me everything," Citrine whispered, excitement in her voice.

As much as Sophia wanted to pretend she didn't know what Citrine meant, a rush of heat filled her cheeks. She furrowed her brows. "Tell you everything about what?"

"I saw him go into your house, of course, and it happened to be quite a long time before he left."

"You were watching for him?" She didn't know if she should laugh or smack Citrine for eavesdropping.

"I just happened to be sitting near a window facing your door," Citrine grinned.

"And I suppose you have nothing better to do?"

"With Gabe running errands? No, not a thing. The only thing I have to do is hope that my dear, sweet little Sophia has had a better, more fulfilling morning than I have. By the look of you, I'd say it went much better than you're letting on."

Sophia rolled her eyes. "I'm not telling you a thing."

"Fine. You don't need to say a word. Your eyes have already told me everything I need to know."

Sophia gasped and jerked her head back. "They do not!"

Citrine shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. If you're not going to tell neither am I."

"You're simply wicked."

Ctirine grinned. "True, but I still want to know what happened."

Sophia shook her head, determined to keep private moments to herself.

"At least tell me if he's a good kisser," Citrine begged.

Her straight face cracked into a smile. "Well…yes…I think so."

Citrine beamed. "I suspected he'd be a good kisser."

Sophia's eyebrows rose. "You did?"

She nodded. "When I've heard him play the piano I could tell he was very passionate." She smiled almost dreamily. "He has to direct that passion somewhere when he's not playing."

Sophia thought about all of those moments on a piano bench, of how electrified the air had felt around them when they sat close together. Citrine was correct: He was passionate when it came to music and when it came to the woman he loved. Passion still tingled along her flesh and through her blood, the need to touch him still dancing in her mind. Private, intimate thoughts, she reminded herself.

"I'm not telling you anything else," Sophia said firmly.

"Is there anything else to tell?" Citrine goaded.

"No," she answered firmly. "Nothing at all."

Citrine studied her. "I don't believe you, but I won't pry because I know there will be even more to tell soon and I can wait for that."

"You're horrible."

"Yes, I am."

"How would you like it if I asked you about Gabe?"

Citrine walked toward the kitchen and motioned for Sophia to follow. "What would you like to know?"

"Nothing, because it's none of my business."

Citrine laughed. "You know I just enjoy teasing you, Sophia. You're like a sister to me, and now I get to watch you grow into a hot-blooded woman."

She'd felt like a hot-blooded woman in Erik's arms. Never in her life would she have imagined that any man could touch her and bring such complete satisfaction. Never would she have thought that such total frustration could lead to relief, that the build up of tension could be released in a burst of pure bliss. She wanted to feel it all over again, but she didn't know if she could handle the same sensations twice in one day.

"Do you know how to…keep from bearing a child?" Citrine asked.

Sophia's face burned again with embarrassment. "I assure you that it won't be an issue."

"You'd be surprised at how urges can overcome senses."

"He knows that I want my wedding night to be memorable," she said firmly.

"Yes, but even you, in the heat of the moment, might decide—"

"I won't." She lowered her chin. "I swore on my mother's grave that I would…I would be the daughter she wanted. I almost went back on my word once with Karl—"

"That had nothing to do with you or your word," Citrine replied. "No matter what people may say, you played no part in that."

"Then you see there's nothing to tell," Sophia said, her voice sounding strained to her own ears. "We kissed and we…held each other." She blushed again, not wanting to reveal her secrets, the fresh discovered uses for hands and tongues.

Citrine grasped her by the hands. "Good. As long as you're happy, that's all that matters. Are you happy?"

"Yes," Sophia answered. "So happy that I want to share my wedding night with him," she blurted out. Almost at once she bowed her head, feeling as though she'd given far too much away.

Citrine grinned, which told Sophia she'd never be judged. "Do you think he wants the same thing? A marriage, I mean?"

"I have no idea. How would I be able to tell?"

"Ask him."

"But shouldn't he ask me?"

"Well, don't make it obvious. Drop hints.

Sophia cocked her head to the side. "How would I do that?"

"Entice him with a bit of feminine charm just like you'd drop bits of meat to make a dog follow you." Citrine smiled again, apparently aware that such devious acts were well above Sophia's head. She reached out a hand. "Forget I said that. You'll whoa him with my help, of course. Come on, sit down and we'll have a chat. You've got me all excited now, my dear."


	117. Old Paths and New Ones

Paladin117

Shafts of light and shadow played across the parlor floor, an intricate dance across polished wood and thick, crimson wool. The wind whistled through a crack where the window didn't quite meet the windowsill, and the sound gave Erik ideas for a symphony he'd write later in the day.

He couldn't remember ever feeling this deep sense of calm while alone. The majority of his adult life, while also spent in solitude, was spent in anxiety. He hadn't realized it until he sat with his eyes half-closed, his hands relaxed on the arms of the chair and not a single thought in his mind. It felt wonderful.

The house was still, especially since Rene had taken Madame Giry into town to look at the newest ladies' fashions displayed in the quaint shops. She'd announced her departure, though it didn't seem to matter if she had an audience or not, and Erik wondered if she wanted to tell him that she'd be gone for the afternoon, or if she wanted to convince herself. Whatever the case, his house had become his own, and for once he enjoyed his own company.

Faintly, he heard the sound of an approaching horse, though as he inched closer and closer to sleep he didn't care. He should have been composing or doing something productive with his day, but a morning spent with Sophia had seemed like accomplishment enough.

His fingers twitched over rich, brocade fabric that didn't even begin to compare to the warm, satiny feel of Sophia in his grasp. The need he felt for her left him breathing harder, a bit desperate. He knew longing well enough, which had proved frustrating, but now he also knew the sweetness and completion of relief from a woman.

"Monsieur!" The parlor door was flung open with such force that Erik was mildly surprised he didn't curse aloud. He had plenty of expletives running through his mind as the young stablehand flew into the room.

"Yes, Monsieur Monteclare?" he asked once he caught his breath.

"She's agreed," Gabe replied, grinning.

Erik studied Gabe, who was pulling off his gloves. His cheeks were red from the cold, his hair disheveled from the wind, but he looked quite pleased with himself, most likely because he'd ridden like hell from the Turro Estate in order to tell his employer that he would be invited to a late lunch.

"What time?" He stretched out his legs and sucked in a deep breath to keep sleep at bay.

"At your earliest convenience." He took a step forward. "In fact, she suggested that instead of you traveling to her home, she could journey here and save you the trouble."

Erik started to tell Gabe no, but found the idea intriguing. This was, after all, his mother's home. He had no idea when she had officially moved off the property or what memories lingered for her here. He had no recollection of ever being inside of the manor with her. They'd always lived in the overseer's house, as far as he knew. Perhaps when he was smaller he had lived here, though he was certain he would have recalled the solarium or the wood-paneled dining room with its vaulted ceilings and dark blue fabric walls.

"With all due respect, Monsieur, I should tell her what your reply is immediately. I promised Monsieur Dupree that I would deliver an extra change of clothes for him, which he'd also like at once."

Erik nodded, ignoring the part about Philippe. He had only one person on his mind now and didn't want to put a damper on their freshly rekindled relationship. Part of him still doubted that she could love him. He needed to see her, he thought, in the most childish way. No matter if he was a grown man, he still wanted her approval…and perhaps her blessing as well when it came to Sophia.

"I shall do as she asks," he answered, quickly adding. "Tell her it is her choice, and that it is no trouble for me to travel."

"Very good, Monsieur." Gabe wriggled his fingers into his gloves once more. "I'll return at once, most likely with Madame Turro."

He nodded, despising that she bore that name. Madame Belmont, he wanted to correct his stablehand, but before he could say a word, Gabe was out the door.

-o-

"Not so fast," Citrine said as Gabe rounded the corner. She caught him by the arm and pulled him back into the kitchen.

"You," he said, attempting to hide his grin. "Well, what do you want?"

Citrine cocked a brow. "Where is Philippe? I thought the old toad would have returned by now."

Gabe sighed impatiently, which Citrine thought was the worst elusion of gossip she'd ever seen in her life. Now she had to get it out of him—whatever it was he had decided to hide from her.

"He's not back yet," Gabe mumbled.

"Oh?" she replied, as though she didn't already know that.

"And I don't know when he's returning."

Fascinating, she thought, now tell me more. She pursed her lips and nodded.

"What are you doing?" Gabe jerked his head back and examined her as though she were a snake about to strike.

"I'm listening." She blinked, knowing it made her appear innocent.

"Well, there's nothing more to say."

"It's as though he's forgotten all about sweet little Sophia."

"I assure you he hasn't forgotten."

Citrine gave a careless shrug. "Well, I don't see him taking very good care of her."

"There is the matter of Sabine and Laure," Gabe grumbled. He instantly frowned, realizing he'd given her what she wanted.

Citrine nodded. "He's staying because of her. Just as I suspected. Well, then, what does he intend to do?"

"Marry her."

Citrine's eyebrows shot up. "No," she said, drawing out the word. "Truly?"

She stepped closer, but not too close considering he looked as though he'd rolled around in the mud and he smelled like a mixture of alfalfa and apples, which she knew was from his beloved horses.

"That's what he said," Gabe told her, resigned to offering her information. "He said he thinks he could love her in time."

She snorted with laughter. "He's the most romantic man I've ever met," she said dryly.

"It has nothing to do with romance," Gabe snapped, a bit more defensive than Citrine had expected. "Honor, respect…he's doing what needs to be done."

"Oh, well, for Heaven's sake, I hope he hasn't told her it's out of gentlemanly duty. No woman wants to hear that, even if it is true."

By the look on Gabe's face, she knew Philippe had probably made an entire report in the expense books detailing the finer points of his financial decision on Sabine's behalf. Every aspect of their union would be weighed and measured, with no regard to the possible hope of love.

"I must leave at once."

"Fine," she sighed.

"Some of us have to work to earn our keep," he said, though he grinned.

"And Monsieur Belmont likes some of us better than others." She flipped her braid over her shoulder and winked at him before turning away, knowing full well that he'd watch her sway out of the kitchen.

-o-

It had been a very long time since she'd seen him.

Angelica Inette Belmont Turro sat with her hands folded in her lap and watched sparrows flutter outside of her window. The house still didn't feel like her own, which she blamed on her long absence from the Estate. She and Monsieur Turro had traveled extensively for years, partially for the pleasure of it, and partially to avoid his son.

Knowing Erik was near made her fear Karl less than she had since she'd first met her husband. Where Karl had come from she didn't know, as Angelica had known Monsieur Turro's first wife, Karl's mother. Neither of them were prone to temper or violence, though as Angelica remembered, the boy's mood swings had come on suddenly.

She didn't want to think of that summer when he'd suddenly changed or the two men who had come by the Estate and asked a fourteen-year-old Karl to assist them in changing a wheel on their wagon. There had been other men more capable of the task, sturdy, weathered men lacking the handsome face and softness, almost childlike attributes that Karl still possessed. She couldn't imagine him dirtying his hands and clothes for the sake of a wagon, but these men, gruff and silent, had been more than eager to take him along.

He'd returned pale as a ghost, his features pinched and hands trembling. When asked what had happened he'd said nothing, though their maid had secretly confided in Angelica that the back of Karl's trousers and his undergarments were soaked in blood. For several days he refused to eat or speak with them, which had angered Antole. He'd punished Karl, made him stay in his bedchamber for a week without supper.

She'd never told her husband what the maid had said or questioned Karl over the incident. She never would for as long as she lived, as she feared what she already knew. He'd become sensitive to everything, and he acted out when a person or situation bothered him. In time, left alone, he'd become dangerous.

She wondered where he was or who he was harassing.

Antole whistled a tune as he sat in his chair across the room while he waited for Sabine to bring his tea and afternoon cookies. He was a quiet man for most of his life and a giddy, almost childish gentleman in his later years. She'd met him after he'd gone blind, the result of a vicious blow to the head. Despite his being impaired, she'd found him charming and, naturally, intelligent. With her own husband gone, she'd found herself drawn to Antole and his soft, smooth voice. She couldn't imagine why anyone would ever hurt him, but then she also couldn't understand why Erik had been met with such cruelty either.

"My son," she whispered, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "All of these years I've waited, and here you are back in the house that is rightfully yours."

She sighed and wiped her eyes, feeling a swell of emotion. She'd always wanted him to live there, not in the overseer's house. She wondered if he felt at home on the unfamiliar grounds, if he remembered what it was like on the rare occasions he saw his father.

Yet another thing she had no interest in thinking about.

"Madame," Sabine said, tapping gently on the door.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Monsieur Monteclare has returned." She peered in and smiled, her face round and healthy. Even if Karl didn't care for his father and stepmother, it appeared that he'd taken good care of Laure and Sabine. It was rare that he seemed affected by anyone, which had always worried her.

"Very good. What has Monsieur Belmont decided?" she asked, thinking it seemed odd to refer to her own son in such a proper manner.

"He has decided that you should be the one to choose."

This made her smile. She'd expected as much, and to know that she still understood him, the son she'd lost long ago, made her happy. Not even time could break the bond a mother felt to her child.

"Should he prepare your carriage for travel?" Sabine asked.

She thought a moment, considering Sabine's question. At last she had the opportunity to see him in his home, in the house he'd always been denied entrance as a child. "Yes. Tell him I will dress at once."


	118. A Kiss Ignites

Paladin118

He waited in the parlor, pocket watch in one gloved hand, eyes trained on a tired oak tree visible through a window weeping rivulets of moisture. He hadn't yet decided how he wanted his mother to see him as she returned to her home, to his home. Next to his favorite armchair—which he'd rarely used—he had a stack of leather bound novels. On the piano he had a new composition he'd recently finished, and by the fire he had a glass of wine, a newly opened bottle, and an empty glass to offer the woman he had loved most in the world, so long ago.

Nothing felt right to him, however. He'd staged their first meeting in his home, and the awkwardness of props bothered him. He wanted to shelve the books, return the composition to a neat pile or cast them into a folder, and he wanted to toss the glass of wine into the fire and just sit and wait for her. But he needed a way to occupy himself until she arrived, thus the props of what he thought was his everyday life at Belmont Manor.

"Is something wrong?"

He glanced up, one hand in his pocket, the other still clenched tight around the watch, and saw Sophia.

"I'm impatient," he replied.

She smiled, her hand feeling along the doorway as she entered the room and came to him. "She'll be here soon. Why don't you have Citrine make you something to eat? It will calm your nerves."

"If she arrives hungry I won't be able to eat with her."

"True. It sounds like you've thought it over quite thoroughly."

"To the point of madness," he mumbled.

She placed her hands gently on his shoulders and took a step closer, until the heat of her body radiated against his. The smell and feel of her quickened his heart rate, and in the back of his mind he knew this wasn't how he wanted to welcome his mother, with lust on his mind and the evidence in his trousers.

"Shall I sit with you?" she asked innocently, completely unaware of what she did to him.

He took her hands in his, pressed warm leather to her flesh and wished he could feel the softness of her small fingers. "If you'd like," he answered, his voice deeper to his own ears. He wondered if she noticed, but when he met her eye she only smiled as she normally did, no hint of recognition on her face.

"If you'd like," he repeated, unable to think of anything else to say.

With a smile, she started to pull away and seat herself but he stopped her and continued to clutch her hands in his. When she gave him a questioning look, he drew her closer and pressed his lips to hers in a tight, greedy kiss. He didn't just want her, he needed her more than he'd ever expected to need anyone. And he had to have as much of her as possible.

She gave a squeak of surprise and pressed her hand to his chest for only a moment before she sank into him, her fingers digging into his back, her knees weakening to the point of surrender. He supported the weight of her body against his, cradled her as he kissed her hard, blocking out all panic and anticipation. All he knew for one, tender moment was Sophia's smell and taste, and the warmth and softness of the woman he adored.

"My goodness," she breathed once he gave her back her mouth. "What was that all about?"

"I don't know," he murmured, breathing heavily, his lips brushing hers. "I honestly don't know."

"And I thought you merely wanted me to sit with you." She appeared flushed, embarrassed by their brief encounter.

"I didn't mean—"

"It's not a complaint," she said with a wide, blissful grin. "Unexpected, yes, but a complaint? Never."

She'd wanted him to kiss her, which furthered his exhilaration and made him want her even more. The distraction was completely inappropriate but too damned good to regret. His blood pumped faster, pulsed noticeably through regions of his body that he didn't want noticed for the moment.

He heard the bridles on approaching horses jingle, the clip-clop of two dapple gray horses signaling his mother's arrival.

And there he stood in the parlor, Sophia in his arms, her belly pressed to his painfully hard erection. At once he kissed her again and released her, watching as she regained her balance.

"I'll be downstairs in a moment," he said before he left her breathless in the parlor.

-o-

Sophia could barely speak when Citrine opened the door and allowed Madame Turro into Belmont Manor. The older woman, still beautiful and elegant, swept her gaze through the foyer and inhaled as though memories lingered in the air. She smiled to herself, a wry expression that didn't seem befitting for a meeting with her son.

For a woman with graying hair and lines around her eyes, she still had the glint of girlish charm in her eyes and in her demeanor. Sophia always imagined her as a flirtatious youth hiding beneath her parasol, smiling coyly at the young men who wanted to court her. She couldn't help but think that Angelina Turro had been surrounded by boys in her youth. She was still an attractive and intelligent woman who could captivate the people she met.

"May I take your hat and coat, Madame?" Sophia offered, pretending that she hadn't wanted to be ravished by this woman's son only moments earlier.

"Thank you, Sophia," she answered without looking at her. She absently handed over her gloves, hat, and coat, which Sophia juggled in her arms as she walked down the hall. Citrine offered Madame Turro tea and asked her to sit in the parlor, which was where she had last seen Monsieur Belmont.

"He's waiting for you," Citrine said, gushing over the new arrival to the Manor. "He's very pleased that you've decided to join us today. He's--" She paused, which made Sophia stop dead in her tracks at the end of the hall. "He must have stepped out for a moment. I swear to you, Madame, he was here a moment ago."

Sophia's cheeks burned with shame and she hung her head as she tiptoed toward the parlor, knowing that if she glanced up, Madame Turro would know that she'd seduced her son.

"Sophia," Citrine said. "Do you know where Monsieur Belmont disappeared to?"

"He's upstairs," she mumbled.

"I beg your pardon?"

She looked up and found both Madame Turro and Citrine staring at her. Guilt had never sat as heavily on her shoulders as it did in that moment. "He's upstairs."

"Nothing is the matter, is it? He looked fine a moment ago." Citrine wrung her hands.

"He's fine. I think."

Both women gaped at her, their eyes filled with concern. "You think?" Citrine asked. "Why, what happened to him?"

I happened to him, she thought. "Oh, nothing. I'm sure he'll return in a moment." She attempted a laugh, which came out as forced and flat as she'd expected. "Or maybe several moments."

Citrine turned her head to the side. "Do you know what he's doing?"

"Why would I know that?" she asked defensively.

"I know what he's doing," Madame Turro said. She looked at Sophia and smiled. In the same heartbeat, Sophia lowered her gaze, feeling like the most evil woman in the world for doing this to another woman's son on the day of their grand reunion.

"He's probably writing down a few notes. I know how much he adores music. It was the first love in his life," she answered.

Oh, sweet Lord, Sophia thought to herself. Perhaps that was it after all. Yes, of course that was it. He'd left her in a moment of consuming passion to jot down a song that was lodged in his head.

The three of them stood in silence for a moment with Citrine's eyes fixed on Sophia, who stared at her shoes and attempted to avoid her best friend's scrutinizing gaze. Above their heads the floor creaked, which was followed by the unmistakable groan of bedsprings. His actions couldn't have been more evident.

Lips pursed, Sophia leaned back against the wall for support, afraid that she'd pass out.

"I'll make certain he's well," Citrine offered. "You know how people come down ill when the weather changes. Madame, I'm certain Sophia will make you quite comfortable in the parlor during your brief wait."

Before Sophia could form words, Citrine was gone. Panic gripped her and she stared down the hall, paralyzed by her fear.

"Are you all right, dear?" Madame Turro questioned. "You look ill yourself."

The older woman's words broke Sophia free from her stupor. "I…I apologize. Allow me to show you to the parlor," she said, her mind and mouth still numb.

"That would be lovely, dear," she said, pleasant and oblivious to the dire situation at hand.

Out of all of the people Sophia had known, Madame Turro was always one to treat her like a human being and not a servant. She enjoyed Madame Turro's company and the way in which she treated everyone.

"How does he like it here?" Madame Turro asked once she was seated comfortably in the parlor. She was perched on the edge of her chair for only a moment before she rose, straightened the books piled up beside Erik's chair, and sat again. "Does it suit him?"

"I believe he's comfortable," Sophia answered. Several moments had passed and she wondered what was keeping Citrine from returning with Erik.

"He hasn't changed much of the house, I see."

"No, he hasn't." Sophia wrung her hands. How could he possibly be doing _that_ at a time like _this_?

"Is something troubling you, darling?"

Sophia frowned, realizing that she'd been staring off into the distance for several moments. "I do apologize, Madame. I'm merely…thinking."

Madame Turro smiled, her eyes warm and gentle, a reminder of her son's all too rare expression. "You don't have to be shy with me, Sophia. I…I think I know what's going on."

Her throat went dry. "You…you do?"

"Of course I do. I know your brother was quite insistent that you marry my husband's…I mean, of course, our son Karl."

Her heart thudded to the bottom of her belly. "Oh."

"But now that he's away and we don't know when he'll return…perhaps your dear brother would have a change of heart? I know it would be unconventional and that perhaps Monsieur Dupree doesn't see my son as the most suitable of husbands, but I assure you that he's…he's a good man. It wasn't his fault, the way he was born, I mean. It was mine…mine as a woman and mother."

Unexpectedly her voice broke and she nearly choked on her words. She pulled a handkerchief from a tightly clutched reticule and dabbed at her eyes. It was obvious that she cared a great deal for him and blamed herself for their long absence in each other's lives. Sophia felt a stab of pain for Madame Turro.

"Oh, Madame," she whispered.

"He was a very good son. In my heart I know he's become a good man, despite what has happened over the years, his life…his suffering."

Sophia sank into the chair opposite Madame Turro. "Yes, you're right. He is a very good man." She started to say something more but paused, swallowed, and sat up straighter. "The work of a diligent and caring mother, I have no doubt."

Madame Turro smiled pleasantly, her eyes dried of tears. "You're too kind, Sophia."

"It's true, Madame. Good children are the result of good parents."

Madame Turro looked away. "And sometimes bad children are the result of bad circumstances," she answered softly.

Sophia couldn't help but think she'd somehow misspoken. She offered a nod and pursed her lips, deciding it was best not to speak again until Madame Turro offered conversation.


	119. Remembering a Son

Paladin119

Erik opened the bedroom window and took a deep, hopefully cleansing breath of fresh air to clear his wandering mind.

He inhaled the pungent smell of horse manure, which swiftly ended all amorous feelings he'd had when he was near Sophia. Eyes closed, he worked his shoulders up and down to relieve the last bit of stress bunching his muscles.

Nothing had gone as planned, though he couldn't say he was completely disappointed. Any time he had the opportunity to kiss Sophia could hardly be considered wasted.

Through the open window he heard his mother and Citrine speaking, but he couldn't make out their words. He was still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with unfulfilled passion. If only there had been more time to whisk Sophia away or lock the parlor door. He would have explored her thoroughly, ran his fingers through her hair and down the length of her spine, cupped the fullness of her breast and kissed her tenderly until she gasped for breath and surrendered in his arms. They were both new and sensitive to exploration in each other's presence. More than anything, he wanted to discover what else he could do to make her breaths come quicker, her body writhe and jerk beneath his hands, his lips.

His fingers tightened around the window's shutter and he grimaced. Not even the odor from the stable could keep his feelings at bay. These thoughts, pleasant as they were, did nothing to urge him down the stairs and back into the parlor, which was where he belonged. By now he'd proven himself a terrible host, a complete disappointment to his waiting mother.

"No more," he growled under his breath. No more inappropriate thoughts at a time like this. What would she think if he greeted her half an hour after she arrived? Would she smell the lust on him and recoil?

He flung his overcoat aside and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. In his haste, he nearly tore his cravat, but he paid no heed. The smell of his thoughts still lingered. He knew for certain that she'd smell it on him and wonder what sort of crude, disgusting man he'd become.

The bed behind him creaked and he turned to find Fidelio with his front paws locked around the foot of the bed. He hadn't even realized that the dog had entered his bedroom.

"Oh! Where are your clothes?" Citrine exclaimed.

"Excuse m—" He jumped at the sound of her voice and glanced down to see he was wearing only his lawn shirt and trousers. "There," he replied, pointing toward the bed.

She peered through the door in the direction he had pointed, then backed away, her face beet red. "Oh, Monsieur, excuse me, I didn't think you'd be like this. You were dressed the last time I saw you."

"Stop that!" he ordered while the dog humped the bedpost, unhindered by the conversation. He barely glanced in Citrine's direction, his concerns trained on his insolent canine's raunchy display. "Fidelio, down this moment! I said down! Down!"

Citrine erupted with laughter. "You terrible, uncontrollable beast."

The dog ignored his master's commands and Citrine's giggling. He enthusiastically loved the carved wooden beam until his master neared. At last he dismounted and trotted away, tail wagging and tongue lolling as though nothing had happened.

"I'll castrate you myself," he grumbled.

The dog continued to smile back at him, oblivious to the threat. Erik ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. He would have found Fidelio a female companion, but the last thing he needed was a basket of puppies in the parlor.

Once Fidelio was back on all fours, Citrine dutifully entered his bedroom and retrieved his clothes, which had been tossed on the bed in a pile. She looked them over, smoothing out light wrinkles with her hands, then thrust them toward him.

"There is nothing wrong with these," she said firmly.

"Uh…no," he answered warily, afraid she'd smell the cologne of frustration on them.

"Then there is no use laundering them, is there?" She didn't wait for him to reply. "I'll be waiting outside for you, Monsieur, on the landing, should you need something else."

He blinked at her. "Tea," he started. "What about the—?"

"Sophia has handled it. She's entertaining your guest." She gave him a warning look, one that bordered on disapproval. "By now they've covered the most embarrassing moments of your childhood, I have no doubt. Make haste, Monsieur."

She clicked her heels and marched from the room.

-o-

In the middle of their casual conversation, Sophia was aware of footsteps pounding down the stairs and along the hallway. Finally, he'd decided to emerge from his room and act like a decent person. She couldn't help but feel irritated with him for his delay.

"And then we saw the dancers in their beautiful dresses. I described each one in detail to Monsieur Turro. He says I always give him the most exquisite details. You know Karl was color blind, so he only saw the world in gray tones."

Madame Turro was in the middle of a story about her and her husband's holiday in Spain when Erik burst through the door, his lips parted as though in question.

"My apologies for my late arrival. It wasn't my intention to leave you waiting." He paused, looked her in the eye, then cast his gaze to the side. "Mother."

Madame Turro smiled warmly and rose from her chair, stars in her eyes when she looked at her son. "I understand. Inspiration caught hold and refused to let go."

Inspiration, indeed. Sophia coughed delicately and prepared to leave Erik with his mother for an afternoon of uninterrupted conversation.

"Actually," he said before Sophia could make her exit. "It was the dog," he said, glancing from Sophia to his mother. "He was…being a nuisance, as usual," he said lightly.

"You own a dog?" Madame Turro questioned.

"Own is hardly the word for him."

Sophia furrowed her brow. "Fidelio?" she questioned. "What did he do to make you late?"

"He was…on…the bed," he answered carefully, apparently leaving out part of the actual story.

She blushed, realizing that she must have heard Fidelio upstairs. It was the weight of his body that made the bedsprings groan in protest. Suddenly she felt quite lewd and ashamed of herself for ever thinking that her Erik would ever act inappropriately with women downstairs.

"I do apologize," she said sincerely.

He gave her a peculiar look but still smiled in return. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"It's me." With a weak smile, she stood and met his eye, fighting the urge to take his hand or put her palm to his cheek. She'd unfairly judged him and wanted to make amends, even if he had no idea what she had thought. "If you need anything, please, call for me at once. Enjoy your afternoon, Monsieur, Madame."

-o-

Angelina Belmont Turro could barely believe she sat in her old parlor with her long-lost son. She looked at him, marveled over the child turned man, and wanted to weep in joy. He served her tea after Sophia left the room, and each time her hand touched his, she found confirmation that he was real and he was safe.

"How do you like it here?" she questioned.

"It's…peaceful," he answered thoughtfully. He slipped his thumb under his mask and scratched his cheek. When he caught her staring, he turned away, removed it from his face, and met her eye. "I look forward to seeing the grounds in the spring."

She smiled at him, finding no shock or horror in his face. To her he was handsome, as she'd always managed to overlook his appearance from the time he was an infant.

At first she'd been uncertain of how she could care for a child with such a serious deformity, but once he began crawling at seven months of age and then, it seemed, running at ten months, she realized there was nothing wrong with him beyond a skin-deep imperfection.

He learned swiftly, paid attention to her when she read aloud to him and watched her as she wrote letters. Through imitation he learned to play the piano, and through hard work he learned to write music. The rest of him was perfect and she saw it. It was her hope that someday a strong, intelligent woman would also see that he was a good, worthy man.

Suddenly Erik looked away, his face dark and troubled.

"You're not feeling well?" she questioned.

"I'm fine," he answered, though his words sounded forced.

"You look…" Miserable, she thought. Perhaps they should have waited a few more days before they met, though she could barely stand to know he had returned home and not act on the desire to see him. "You look tired."

"Honestly, I'm fine. I merely don't know what to say to you and I feel foolish. It's been such a long time and I should have much to say."

"But it's difficult." She placed her hand gently over his. "I know. I feel it too. But we'll find plenty to talk about in time, won't we? We have, or I should say, we had much in common long ago. Remember how I gave you those charcoals to draw with?"

He nodded, his expression changing as he brought forth a fond memory. "I think I sketched every tree around the house."

"And climbed them all as well."

He rubbed his knee where he had a scar from falling off a tree branch one summer. The thin branch had broken rather than bent, and he crashed to the ground, scattering birds perched in the highest branches and nearly scaring her to death.

"Do you still enjoy drawing?"

"I haven't done much lately," he replied, his legs stretched out and body at ease. He looked comfortable and at home in the dark brown armchair. She could imagine him sitting with his wife in the evening, reading stories aloud while they enjoyed the warmth of a fireplace. It was how she'd enjoyed spending her evenings in this same house.

"Your music must take up most of your time," she said.

He frowned slightly as though embarrassed by her words. "I haven't sold anything," he answered.

"You will," she assured him. "I've heard your work. It's…modern."

"When did you ever hear my—" He stopped abruptly and looked away, his jaw tense. "Ah. You mean that."

"I attended two rehearsals," she said proudly. "I would have liked to have attended a performance but there were no more tickets available."

"I had no idea," he muttered.

"That it was sold out?"

"That I could have…if you'd been there you would have, you may have, there is a chance that you would have been…"

"My husband needed me," she said softly. "Our son was of no help."

Their eyes met, hers filled with sorrow, his filled with anger. "Your son?" he questioned.

"Antole's son. Karl. He kept me away from you because he couldn't manage to care for his father for more than week while I was away in Paris."

His expression changed again, but this time it was unreadable. This was the second time she'd mentioned Karl's name and received a peculiar look.

"Let's talk about something else, shall we?" she asked, becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

He nodded but didn't speak. In her memories he'd never been this quiet. She still remembered a gregarious and happy little boy who always tested her will to keep him by her side. They hadn't lived in this house, and she realized suddenly that they'd only been inside of it together a handful of times. She'd had her pains upstairs in the bedroom he now claimed, she'd nursed him in this very room. Once she'd healed enough to travel, they had been placed into a wagon and escorted across the property. After that, she'd never looked back at this place and thought of it as her home, even after he'd disappeared and she'd returned to live with her husband and his occasional mistresses.

"Would you care to begin?" she asked, shaking the memories from her mind.

He thought a moment, his eyes trained across the room. What she wouldn't give to know what he recalled from this place. "I'd like to know how you've been all of these years." He looked at her again, a slight smile on his face that seemed anything but genuine.

She sat forward and studied him, at the grown man that had emerged while they'd been apart. It shouldn't have been like this; awkward and uncomfortable. They should have been sitting closer, they should have been acting more like mother and son instead of strangers.

She answered honestly. "I've been worried, happy, in mourning, content, regretful of my past and suspicious of my future. Erik, I've been everything imaginable."

"As have I," he replied, but all she could see was the sadness in his eyes.

He looked back at her, a child still peering from adult eyes. She remembered how compassionate he was, how it upset him when he found a baby bird cast from its nest and covered in ants and flies. She remembered his question about why the mother didn't come down and carry the baby back to the nest and how she'd never had an answer. It was the way of nature, the mother protected the strongest of her offspring while the weak perished. Did he know he was strong? Did he think she'd cast him from their nest?

"What are you now?" she asked.


	120. Overheard

Paladin120

"You attended a performance at the Opera Populaire," Erik replied, his tone darker and more acidic than he'd intended. He realized it wasn't the proper response to her question, but he made no attempt to remedy the situation. He merely stared at her, dumbfounded by what he'd said and wanting to say more.

She blinked at him, obviously taken aback by his answer. "Is that an answer to my question?" she asked.

"I don't know how to answer you," he said softly.

She forced a smile. "I wondered what had happened to you," she told him. "When I…knew about everything."

"About Christine Daae, you mean to say?" he asked coldly. It was as though he couldn't stop himself from revealing the darkest edges of his thoughts, and he wanted to know what she'd learned or thought of him since he'd emerged into her life again, visible yet still unknown. "About my…undue affection for the girl?"

"Yes." She pursed her lips, her discomfort visibly increasing with each passing second. "We don't have to discuss this matter if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Does it make you uncomfortable to know what became of me?"

"It does," she admitted. "Of course it does."

"Why?"

Her arm extended and she placed a delicate hand over his. "Because you're my son and I loved you even when I couldn't find you. When Madame Giry told me that the child I was searching for was this…this phantom…I hardly believed her. But then I knew when she said your name and told me about you…I knew it was you."

He held back a shudder. "What did she say?"

"Nothing malicious," she assured him. "Merely that you had unrecognized talent—and that she truly wished you would reveal yourself to the opera managers because they would have at least looked through your work and fallen in love with it without the need for such…well, you understand. There were other ways."

He didn't nod, but he'd come to understand that there were other ways. It no longer mattered. He'd never return to Paris, and he'd never again see the opera house, Christine, or anyone else involved. It was for the better, but he still longed for closure, which he knew he'd never attain.

"And did she say I had an all too recognized love for a woman who wanted nothing to do with me? Who disgraced me on the stage before a full house?"

His mother shook her head. "She never said anything of the sort." Her hand pulled away for only a second before she grasped his firmly in the manner only a mother was capable of holding onto her child. It startled him, this unexpected closeness. "I've upset you. I apologize."

"It's still fresh," he mumbled, unable to look away from her hand atop his. The warmth of her was real, comforting yet still awkward. By name and appearance they were related, but where it mattered, he still didn't know what to think of her. "All of these mistakes I've made, they're still quite fresh in my mind, where they no longer belong."

"Why is that, do you think?" she asked.

"Because I need to remember what a fool I was so that I never, ever consider such actions again." He exhaled. "Because I enjoy tormenting myself in a way no one else could ever prod at me."

She offered a warm smile. "What happened with her, may I ask?"

"With Christine?"

She nodded, and he wondered why she didn't say her name aloud. Obviously she knew it. Everyone who'd heard of the opera fire and the abduction new the names Christine Daae, Raoul de Chagny, and The Phantom. They were real, innocent people who deserved to be happy and in love. He was a dark, evil force lacking a name and a face.

He sat back, studied the petite hand still resting over his. "She had more talent than anyone else in that theater," he explained. "And she was wasting her voice rather than honing it. No one could see that she was a diamond in the rough, if you will."

"But you saw it?"

"I don't know what I saw," he snapped. "What I thought would be the greatest joy of my life ended with a catastrophe I will never be able to explain. A mistake," he said. "A mistake happened. And yet I don't fully regret it."

-o-

_"It's still fresh," _he mumbled, irritation in his voice._ "All of these mistakes I've made, they're still quite fresh in my mind, where they no longer belong."_

Sophia stood with her back against the wall and a tray in her hands that seemed to grow heavier by the second. Her heart raced, threatened to drown out the voices in the parlor. She hated herself for eavesdropping, but everything she'd overheard thus far was a mystery to her. An opera fire…a woman he'd loved…a disaster. He'd never mentioned any of these things to her, not once.

Jealousy, which she found foolish, filled her as he told his mother about the woman's voice, about his lack of regrets, about everything. The words glued themselves to her heart and threatened to suffocate her. Without much reason to do so, she hated this woman named Christine. Despite the obvious edge to Erik's voice, it still seemed as though he cared a great deal for her, which Sophia equated as Erik's inability to be completely in love with her.

"Why don't you regret it?" his mother asked, sounding surprised.

He sighed. "Because…" He paused and shifted in his chair. Sophia couldn't help herself a moment longer. She needed to see if his expression was filled with affection for another woman, a woman that wasn't Sophia.

"Psst."

From the corner of her clouded vision, she saw Citrine at the end of the hallway, her hands planted firmly on her hips and a sour expression on her face. Sophia froze, afraid that Citrine would say something and she'd be caught.

Citrine mouthed a question, which Sophia didn't understand. She found herself drawn to Erik's deep, perfectly masculine and captivating voice—which for the moment she didn't want to have captivate her.

"Because…" he started. "I know the difference between a perfect, unrealistic fantasy and what it's like to truly love someone. I've found I much prefer the faults of true love."

"Faults," Madame Turro said with a chuckle. "It's easier to relate to someone who isn't perfect."

"That is to say," he said quickly, "that Mademoiselle Daae had her faults, too. She had many, I'm sure, but I didn't know it. I suppose I didn't pay much heed to what was imperfect. Her voice…"

Sophia frowned, remembering how he'd once asked if she could sing. He'd been in love with an opera performer who apparently hadn't loved him back, which she'd known but had conveniently ignored. And now that he'd lost his beautiful, talented singer…had he settled for a housemaid who could pretend to play the piano?

"I know what you mean," Madame Turro replied. "I know precisely what you mean and how you felt."

He must have nodded or smiled because he didn't reply aloud. She looked to Citrine, who still had an expression meant to scold. Sophia didn't care what Citrine thought when she herself couldn't decide what she felt about the situation. She most certainly didn't want to hear that she was faulted, though she did appreciate the part where he'd said he'd found true love—assuming he'd meant her. Now she wasn't certain who he meant.

"And my own faults," he said as Sophia gulped back her tears, her faulted, hot tears. "Which are far more numerous than I care to count."

"I don't see it," Madame Turro said. "But perhaps as your mother that's my duty, to look past what you see on the surface and know what's true inside of you."

He gave a chuckle. "It's there, it's all there. Ask anyone in Paris." The floorboards creaked and Sophia jumped to attention at the sound of him rising from his seat. If she hesitated a moment longer he'd find her in the hallway. "Would you care for some tea or—"

"Here I am," Sophia announced awkwardly. "With fresh, hot tea and biscuits that Citrine prepared for you. I do hope I'm not interrupting an important conversation between the two of you. My apologies for intruding."

"You're not intruding, dearie," Madame Turro said with her usual polite tone.

"My apologies, Monsieur," she said softly.

Erik stared at her, his features tight, his expression filled with guilt or remorse, she couldn't tell which. It was obvious that he knew she'd overheard at least a portion of his conversation, though she gave him no opportunity to be upset with her. She wanted to reserve the right to be angry with him. His confession left her feeling betrayed by the man whom only hours earlier she'd wanted to spend the rest of her life with, and now he was a stranger.

"Sophia," he said gently.

She looked away, carefully avoiding Madame Turro's gaze and sidestepped around Erik, even though he'd purposely moved closer as though he wished to take the tray from her.

"Excuse me, Monsieur Belmont," she mumbled. "I do not wish to burn you."


	121. Citrine in the Middle

Paladin121

He stared at her in disbelief, the thoughts of the opera house and Christine shattered by her presence. He feared he'd made a mistake in not telling Sophia the truth about his past, but he knew Sophia had made a far greater one in eavesdropping.

"Sophia," he said gently, wanting to take her by the hands and just hold her, to silently make everything better.

By the expression on her face, however, she wouldn't allow it. Her behavior was simply frustrating.

"Yes, Monsieur?"

Erik blinked at Sophia, first confused, then angered by the manner in which she'd addressed him. He'd specifically asked her not to respond to him in such a formal manner, yet now she may as well have walked into the room without a word.

Only an ignorant fool would have found her behavior odd, but he knew precisely why she treated him with feigned respect: She'd overheard the conversation. Terrified of her reaction, he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and ask her what in the hell she thought she was doing, spying on him. However, he didn't really want to know what she was thinking. He merely wanted her to still think of him the way she had in the morning, as the man she wanted to love and trust.

"May I bring you anything else, Madame Turro?" she asked.

Angelina's lips parted, her eyebrows shooting into her hairline. "I beg your pardon?"

"You may leave, Sophia," he said, his tone clipped and harsh. Her eyes bulged in disbelief, but she managed to turn away and set the tray down on the service table, deftly removing the empty tea carafe. "Wait," he said suddenly.

Sophia barely glanced in his direction. "If you should need anything, Madame, please do not hesitate to ask. I will be down the hall."

"I said wait," he said again. "Sophia."

She stood straight as an arrow, watching him from the corner of her eye. "Please, Monsieur, do not allow a simple servant to disrupt your pleasant afternoon."

His mouth worked, but no words emerged. He thought of her as much more than a servant—or rather he didn't think of her as a servant at all. She was his companion, his closest friend, and the woman he adored. By now she should have known the extent of his feelings.

"You don't work for me any more," he said firmly.

Both Sophia and Angelina inhaled sharply, their gasps of disbelief making him realize what his words must have sounded like.

He silently reworked his thoughts and forced himself to calm down, but she fled before he could say another word, redeeming or damning.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," he heard Citrine ask somewhere down the hall. "What happened now?"

"In-deed," he muttered.

When he turned from the doorway, he found Angelina thoughtfully looking up at him. She didn't comment right away, but she smiled at him.

"How long?" she asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"How long have you been in love with her?"

His face grew warm, and he wondered how it was obvious to her. Embarrassed, he turned away and pursed his lips, unsure of how to answer. He didn't trust himself to know love no matter what he felt since his past held little recognition of what was true and what was false.

With his gaze trained on the open door, he sighed. Everything with Sophia was different. "From the moment she first opened her mouth."

"She's fond of you," she commented. "It's obvious."

"Is it?"

Her smile widened. "Mothers know these things, my dear."

"Do they?" he asked soberly.

"At least they think they do, but anyone who pays attention could see the way she looks at you."

His heart hammered in his chest. He hadn't noticed the way Sophia looked at him. No one had ever looked at him with anything but contempt—no one but the woman who sat across from him.

"Then why did she storm out of here?"

Angelina chuckled. "You honestly don't know?"

"Perhaps because I released her from her duties."

"Is that all?"

"Because she was listening, most likely with her ear pressed to the door, and heard me speak of another woman."

She looked satisfied that he'd figured it out from himself. "And then you released her from employment."

"Because I cannot court, let alone marry, a servant in my—"

Her lips parted and formed a wide, girlish grin. "You want to marry her?"

"I…I think so." Of course he wanted to marry her, he thought. He wanted nothing more than to have her in his home by day and beside him in bed at night, but he couldn't possibly tell his own mother the specific details.

"Does she know this?"

"I have no idea. Judging by the way she left, I'd say it isn't likely."

She poured herself another cup of tea. "I'll wait here. You've left her waiting long enough for your explanation."

-o-

Like a scolded dog returned to its master, Erik left the parlor. He hadn't yet decided what he'd say to her when they stood face-to-face, though he imagined ever possible scenario from apologies leading to tender kisses to a passionate fight of yelling and tempers reduced to fierce kisses. Either way he won her back. He couldn't imagine her actually leaving his estate and life, not after everything they'd been through together

Much to his disappointment he found Sophia and Citrine in the kitchen, which ruined his plan of taking her in his arms and telling her how he felt for her.

The two stopped speaking the moment he stopped in the doorway, and judging by their expressions, they didn't regard him fondly. He felt as though he walked toward his death as he approached the two, each step taken with caution since Citrine had her hands behind her back and he anticipated her wielding a rolling pin. To his surprise, Citrine only glared at him with unabashed contempt while Sophia hugged herself, shrinking into her cream colored shawl and the protection of her friend.

He frowned at the two of them, completely unprepared for two of the fairer sex joined against him. In his heart he already knew he was no match for Citrine's wrath. No man could best her tongue or her strong will, and he felt sorry for any man who attempted to reason with her.

"Sophia—"

She sniffled, which earned Erik another poisonous look from Citrine. He wondered how much she'd told Citrine and guessed that in the mere three minutes they'd been apart that Sophia had hiccupped her tragic release and sobbed her rejection in the arms of her female companion, the only person in the world she trusted.

"May I speak with you?" he asked, drawing himself up to his full height in order to appear confident and relaxed, as though he retrieved wayward young woman daily and coaxed them back to their sanity.

Sophia looked to Citrine for reassurance, and Erik had the most appalling image of a conversation mediated by the household cook. Between the two of them he'd never get a word in to defend himself. By the end of it, he suspected he'd be the one let go—or probably poisoned at supper.

"I'd like to speak to you alone," he added for safety's sake.

Citrine patted Sophia gently. "You're no longer employed here, Sophia. You don't have to do anything he says, no matter what he might tell you. That'll teach him good."

His hands clenched. For the most part he liked Citrine and her cooking enough to keep her employed, but if she said one more word he'd release her as well.

"Sophia," he said firmly. "Follow me into the solarium. I would like to speak with you in private."

He waited impatiently, counted to five, and turned with the hope that she'd follow him. If she didn't, there was nothing else for him to do. He would not make the same mistakes he'd made in the past and chase another woman. All he could do was hope she would listen to him.


	122. The Depth of Love and Pain

Paladin122

He stood alone in the bright sunlight and watched sparrows compete for bread crumbs Citrine had thrown out the kitchen door. After a lifetime spent in darkness, he realized he'd forgotten the splash of warmth a well-lit room provided. The sensuality of candlelight, the mystery of shadows…that had been his world, and he had thought it the most suitable surrounding for a ghost. But now he wanted the world belonging to men, a lifetime of watching trees flower and sprout bright green leaves, to sit in the shade because it was his choice, not a requirement, to walk through a sea of leaves.

And to walk toward Sophia.

He attempted to count the minutes that passed, though his every thought skittered through his mind faster than a rabbit. What he'd thought was a minute could have only been ten seconds. The anxiety burrowed deep in waiting threatened to break him. Every creak of the house, every hush of wind through an opening in the window startled him, made him want to turn and see if she stood there.

But still he stood alone, his hands in his pockets, his heart a heavy, constant thud of panic. Every attempt to remedy the situation had made it worse. He'd gone from mentioning Christine's name and his former life to getting rid of Sophia moments after she'd walked into the parlor.

He hadn't meant to release her from her duties in that manner. He'd hoped to sit her down and tell her he wished to move forward, to court her properly rather than keeping her as a convenience in his home, a servant by day and lover after hours.

Everything he'd wanted to say now lodged itself on the back of his tongue and waited to be used. Thick, dry words he'd speak on his knees if she asked him to beg. His eyes closed to the sunlight, to the unfamiliar home he'd inherited. No, he told himself, no he would not beg her to love him, to stay with him. He wanted her to come to him without resignation, to stay by his side because she wanted him as much as he wanted her. The possibilities frightened him, as he couldn't see a reason for her to stay here. He wasn't handsome and he hadn't been good to her. He was ugly and cruel.

He'd gotten rid of her, and now she was free to rid her life of him.

Suddenly his legs didn't seem strong enough to support his weight. He needed to sit down and wait. If she didn't return, he'd stay here for an eternity in this one sunlit room and wait for death. From a dark cave of coffin to a glass tomb.

-o-

"I'd kick him," Citrine suggested, her face red with emotion. She vibrated with energy, with the need to march into the solarium and wallop the man who'd hurt her dear, sweet Sophia.

"I can't kick him," Sophia replied.

"Then I'll kick him, right in the—"

"No, you're not going to kick him either." She laughed in spite of herself. "I should just…leave. Quietly."

Citrine rolled her eyes. "You're no good at this."

"I know," she said miserably. That's why she was here, in the kitchen of a home where she'd been dismissed from her duties. She didn't know how to do anything at all.

"You want to leave and mean it. If you just quietly slink away then he has no need to run after you."

Sophia's eyebrows shot up. "To run after me? Why would he do that?"

Citrine blew a raspberry. "Weren't you paying attention?" She made a face, an exaggerated frown, and dropped her shoulders. She walked around, dragging her feet as she made a circle around Sophia. "That's how he walked into the kitchen."

"I saw no such thing. He—"

"That's how he wanted to walk in. Didn't you see how he looked? He was sorry."

"He was?"

"But," Citrine raised her finger in the air and shook it. "Not sorry enough."

Sophia's heart sank. She wanted to believe he'd made a mistake, that she'd made a mistake as well, but she couldn't bear to face him. Confrontations frightened her, and after he'd barked at her and told her he no longer wished to employ her, she feared what Philippe would say when he discovered they were both cast onto the street. However, she had no idea if Erik had released both of them or just her. She didn't want to ask.

"Then what should I do?" she asked, though she didn't necessarily want to take Citrine's advice, which had thus far involved physical violence and a production fit for a Parisian stage.

Citrine shrugged. "I already suggested that you kick him. Right in the—"

Sophia cocked her head to the side. "I have half the mind to kick you."

"Me? What did I do?" She appeared shocked.

"For not telling me to go to the solarium and speak with him."

Citrine smiled warmly. "That sounds perfectly reasonable to me. I'd never suggest anything of the sort."

-o-

A lifetime had passed, and he was alone. He couldn't remember when silence had filled him completely, when the tick of a clock seemed slow to his heart beat. The longer he waited, the more he resigned himself to fate. He'd been given two chances in life and proven beyond a doubt that he could not love and be loved in return, that romance was a coveted but distant joy he wouldn't know.

He watched the varying degrees of sunlight as clouds passed in the sky, and he wondered how men who'd lived their entire lives in the presence of proper women dealt with such devastating blows. For him it had always been difficult to accept loss. From the bird he'd found kicked prematurely from the nest only to have it die in his hand to what he'd thought was the betrayal of his own mother, he'd been unable to accept the emotional challenges.

Another fault, he thought, one which ran much deeper than a layer of skin, one that he didn't need a mirror to see because he felt it now more than ever.

"Shall I pack my belongings today or will you give me the opportunity to do so tomorrow?"

The sound of Sophia's voice paralyzed him with joy and complete trepidation. He waited until her words fully registered, until he'd replayed each syllable a dozen times and new for certain that he'd heard her voice.

"It's not necessary," he said as he turned to look at her.

"I will not accept charity," she snapped.

"I'm not offering charity." His voice came out a soft whisper despite every fiber of him wanting to yell to her.

"Then I'm afraid I don't understand you at all, Monsieur."

He took a breath, a spark of irritation threatening to consume him in flames of anger. "Sit," he said, gesturing toward a chair.

She hesitated, her brave front deteriorating as she glanced at the chair and then back at him. "I don't think it is for the best."

"Why not?" he questioned.

She frowned. "I think I should leave."

"Where will you go?"

"To stay with Citrine," she said firmly, though by her nervous expression she must have realized that her answer wasn't as threatening as he'd first expected.

"If you won't sit, then allow me to explain."

"About what?" she questioned. Her green eyes flashed with anger. "The woman you're in love with or why you decided I am no longer employed here."

From the moment she'd walked out of the parlor he'd known speaking to her would not be simple, but he hadn't anticipated it being this difficult, either. She folded her arms over her chest and hid the parts of herself that he'd touched. He looked away, his mind filled with the memory of her soft flesh, of the firmness of her breasts and the salty sweet flavor of her skin. Her warmth, now absent, had kept him content in the moments they lay together.

And now she stood across the room, her body closed off from his. It was as though they had never embraced, never shared intimacy. He would have wondered if it had all been a dream, but he could still replay her soft cries and the thump of her heart against his. He knew her in a way no man had ever known her and he didn't want to lose that.

"Both," he said. "But the woman I'm in love with…she's you, Sophia, I'm in love with you."

"That cannot be true."

"Why not?"

"Because," she replied.

He offered her a seat once more, which she declined. "Why don't you believe that I'm in love with you?"

Her eyes swam with tears. "Because you're a composer and a musician, you love your world of music, your piano, your talent…and because I cannot sing."

"What does that have to do with my feelings for you?"

"She was a singer, wasn't she?"

His jaw tensed. Without meeting her eye, he nodded. Telling her about Christine proved harder than he'd anticipated. Foolishly he'd expected to put that part of his life firmly behind him, create a distance in which he could freely speak without feeling as though his past life could interfere with the present. It would interfere, he realized, it would poke and prod at him no matter what he did.

She shifted uncomfortably, a strand of hair falling in her eyes, which he desperately wanted to pull away. Somehow he refrained from moving, from acting without a second thought. For once he held himself under firm control. You lead, he'd told her once before, and I'll follow.

"And what am I? I'm a servant in your home." Tears swam in her eyes, threatened to pour over her mottled cheeks and stain her oval face. It didn't make sense how such deep feelings of love could result in hurting her, but all the signs lay before him. "That is to say, I was your servant."


	123. The Truth About the Past

Paladin123

"Sit down right this moment and listen to me, for God's sake," Erik barked.

Sophia, who'd imagined he'd simply allow her to slip away, stood up straight and gawked at him. His firm tone made her heart jump and stopped her tears, and before she realized what had happened she found herself seated across from him with her hands in her lap and her eyes staring out the long windows.

Despite the situation, the room was remarkably comfortable. The air was warm and moist, the perfect condition for all of the beautiful plants that adorned small stands and tables. Blue and white china, small wooden figurines painted in bright colors, and an old doll in a lace dress adorned a shelf above a brazier. She studied the room as though she'd never seen it Before, which helped her avoid Erik's penetrating gaze.

"I've made a mistake," he said quietly.

She didn't mean to, but she grunted. From the corner of her eye she saw him spread his hands along his thighs, along the muscular, long legs she'd caressed that morning. Tears threatened again as she thought of how foolish she'd been to allow this man into her bed, to touch her. Her arms folded, protecting herself from all the pain she felt was already inside. As much as she wanted to hold herself responsible, she simply couldn't muster an ounce of regret. She'd liked the way it felt to run her fingers through his hair, to have his mouth on hers, on her shoulders and breasts. She'd loved the way the length of him felt in her hand, the velvety soft flesh, the unexpected warmth and musk of him and the fascinating feel of him, soft but hard as stone.

He cleared his throat, and she wondered if he'd said something else and she'd missed it. Embarrassed, she picked lint from her skirt and pretended she didn't care, though suddenly she found herself quite interested in what he had to say.

"I know you overheard what I said while you were standing outside the parlor door," he started.

"Are you accusing me, Monsieur?"

"Accusing? No, I'm not accusing, I'm stating what I'm fully aware of, Sophia, and if you would like to say that I'm mistaken, then please do so at once."

She didn't say a word. He was correct, and now she felt completely asinine for her eavesdropping.

"Sophia," he said, the harshness in his tone disappearing. "Her name was Christine Daae, and I was her teacher—her voice teacher, as I believe you overheard."

She merely nodded, shocked by his willingness to confess or explain, or whatever he was doing.

"We lived in the Opera Populaire in Paris," he said, his voice thick with hesitation. "She lived in the dormitories with the other dancers and I…I lived in the cellar."

"The cellar?" she blurted out.

His gaze lowered and he nodded. "The fifth cellar, the deepest hole in the earth," he answered. His hands gripped the arms of the chair. "I lived there for many years. Alone."

"Why?" she asked, horrified, unable to imagine living without sunlight and trees, the smell of grass in the summer and the heady scent of rotting leaves in the fall.

"Polite society would not accept this," he mumbled. He turned his face to the side as though to display the mask, though she couldn't help but notice how flushed the unmasked side of his face appeared.

"Why didn't you return here?"

"Because I didn't think I was wanted here," he answered. The pain in his gaze broke her heart, which made it impossible to stay angry at him for firing her. "And in the opera house, no one knew I existed."

"But you just said you taught Christine how to sing," she pointed out.

It took him a moment to answer, though when he did, he looked her in the eye. "She didn't believe I was real."

"But that's absurd—"

"I let her believe I was a ghost."

"Why?" she asked, horrified. "Why would anyone want to be mistaken for dead?"

"Because it was easier not to exist than to be seen as imperfect," he answered. "Because I was incapable of telling her the truth." His tone grew angry, his hands curled into fists. "Because I knew all along that the moment she saw me it would be over, and I was right." He exhaled and closed his eyes. "I knew from the beginning that I was completely wrong."

"How did you teach her if she didn't think you were real?"

"Through a mirror," he said. "So that she couldn't see me."

"How long did you do this?"

"Far too long," he answered. He lifted his hand and worried his chin. "Because she was unprepared for the truth."

"That you were real?"

"That I wasn't an angel of music," he replied.

Sophia's brow knit. "But how could she possibly think you were an angel, even if she didn't see you? Pardon me for saying so, but it doesn't sound like a believable story. What sort of angel would live in a cellar?"

He looked deeply ashamed of himself, as though by her words he realized how ridiculous the scheme truly had been all along. "An angel wouldn't," he replied. "But a man who has nothing would take what he could."

"Then why weren't you honest with her?"

Erik sat back. "Look at me, Sophia. How could I be honest with her?"

"You were honest with me," she whispered. "Weren't you?"

-o-

He released a ragged breath and closed his eyes. "I couldn't be a ghost here," he said, his voice seemingly not his own. Deep inside it felt as though he listened to someone else speak of his shame and of the darkest moments of his life.

"That doesn't answer my question," she said.

"I've been honest with you," he told her, meeting her eye. "Even when I didn't want to be honest with you, I've done so, Sophia."

"Why wouldn't you want to be honest with people?"

He exhaled. "It's not a matter of what I want."

"But why?"

"Because no one would ever listen to what I had to say," he growled. "Look at me! You know the answers to these questions. They're all here." He pointed to the mask and watched her draw back in fear. "It kept me from the rest of the world."

"But being a ghost or an angel or whatever it was you had others believing brought you no closer, did it?"

Her words made irritatingly perfect sense to him, but he still couldn't admit it. "It made it easier."

"How?"

"It just…did."

She looked at him, and saw through the thin veil of words.

"At least I thought it did," he muttered. "Nothing back then made an ounce of sense, in case you haven't understood that yet, but I did it for…for self preservation." He waited for her to reply, which didn't come. "I did it out of cowardice, which in the end got me nowhere."

"It brought you here, didn't it?"

He smiled at her, appreciating the words of an optimist. "It brought me to you."

She didn't soften or smile as he had hoped. Her expression showed no sign of being impressed by his words or more forgiving of his plight. He held his breath, half-expecting her to roll her eyes or laugh at him.

Sophia grunted. "You were better off in Paris," she mumbled, not allowing him an inch.

They sat in silence, and Erik tried to remember why he wanted to please her. His initial anger had turned to passive shame which kept him sitting across from her with his gaze cast down.

"I would still be there if it weren't for…certain tragedies," he said, remembering it all at once from the day Raoul de Chagny showed up to win his childhood sweetheart back to the last moment he'd dragged Christine into his world and forced her to make a choice. He couldn't even begin to imagine grabbing Sophia by the arm and locking her inside his bedroom. He could, however, imagine grabbing hold of her and gathering her in his arms.

Suddenly he stood and looked down at her. Her lips parted in surprise, but she didn't move away or, thankfully, scream in terror.

"You're wrong, Sophia. I'm not better off in Paris. I was alone and miserable there, and I will never go back, not to a place where I made the worst mistakes of my life. I was a fool, Sophia, a damned fool. That isn't what I want to be, that isn't what I ever wanted."

"Erik," she gasped.

He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to her feet. Once she stood before him, he realized how hard he'd started to breathe and how breathless she'd become. Her cheeks had turned bright red, her eyes the deepest shade of green he'd ever seen. With his confidence restored, he held onto her, drew her to him until he'd crushed her to his chest. The warmth of her would not allow him to turn away and lose her.

"What would have happened to you if I hadn't returned here? What would Karl have done to you? What would he still be doing to you and to Sabine? To the little girl as well?" he shouted.

Her lips trembled and she slowly nodded. "If you want me to thank you for what you did—"

"No, that isn't what I mean. I need you, Sophia, more than you'll ever need me. I didn't let you go because I didn't want anything to do with you. I want you here, but not as a servant who slips in and out of my bed. I want you as mine, as a proper woman in my life. If you don't want what I want, then tell me now, Sophia, tell me before I…" He sucked in a lungful of air, his gaze trained on her lips. His heart beat so fast he could barely breathe, barely speak, but he had to tell her what he'd wanted to tell her for months. "Before I kiss you and don't take no for an answer."


	124. More than Words

Please check out my profile for an update and an (almost) painless favor I'm asking of you. It'll only take about 60 seconds of your life.

Paladin124

Sophia could barely hold herself upright. She stared into Erik's eyes and tried her best to ignore the surge of animalistic impulse she felt hot in her veins, which was impossible given her weak knees and short breaths. Her heartbeat drowned out all other sounds, and for a moment she wasn't sure if she heard him correctly.

Most assuredly he would not force her to kiss him, even though at the moment it would have been difficult to keep from kissing him. Dark and mysterious—those were the perfect words to describe Monsieur Belmont. Fierce and commanding, however, hadn't come to mind…until now.

"Tell me," he said, inching closer to her face. She watched his smooth lips move with each syllable and thought of how they had felt against hers.

"I want to know if you love me or if all you've said is because you no longer have…what was her name?"

His grip momentarily loosened. "Her name was Christine, and I do love you," he said in a surprisingly calm voice.

"But…why?" she asked. "You're a composer and a musician. I am…well, look at me." She lifted her arms from her sides. "I'm here to keep your house. I'm nothing like what would suit your lifestyle."

His mouth hardened. "And you know what would suit me?"

"I would assume you'd be happiest with a woman who shares your interests."

"I wasn't," he answered. He reached to touch her face, but abruptly lowered his hand. She found herself holding her breath, wishing for his denied touch. "But I was never…with her."

Her cheeks burned. "I don't need details," she snapped.

"There are no details. There was never anything, nothing real at least. Have you heard anything I've said, Sophia?"

"Yes, I've heard you, and I want to know something."

He stepped closer, threatening to steal the air from her lungs.

"Am I replacing her?" she blurted out.

He searched her face and shook his head. "I didn't think of her when you were near me, if that's what you're asking."

"What do you think about?"

His gaze flickered to her breasts and then back to her face. Long moments passed, and as she stood before him barely able to think, he cupped the back of her head in his hand and turned his face to the side.

"The possibility of love."

Sophia found herself leaning forward in anticipation, but he made no move to kiss her. She rocked forward, caught herself, and leaned back. The momentum threatened to topple her, but Erik managed to steady her.

"You will never believe me if I merely say I love you," he said. "I'm not good with words. Music has been my gift, not dissertation, but I don't have a song for you." His words came out a growl that caught her by surprise. She swallowed and continued to stare at him, frightened by his gruff nature and tantalized by the look in his eye.

"What do you have for me, then?" she asked warily.

"As I've said, I will," he paused and licked his lips. "I'm going to kiss you because I cannot imagine never kissing you again."

"I could slap you," she murmured.

He nodded, his eyes trained on her lips. "You could."

"I could shriek, and your mother would come running."

His lips were nearly against hers. If she'd wanted to free herself, all she had to do was duck from his grasp and run from the solarium, but her knees had turned to liquid and her belly did cartwheels of anticipation.

"Citrine would arrive first," he said, his breath hot against her face.

Her toes curled with the need to touch him, feeling their unmistakable electricity. "She'd probably kill you without question."

He nodded very slowly, and his lips parted. She felt the heat of his mouth against hers, the gentle prodding of his tongue against her lips. All at once she wanted to kiss him back and also demand that he give her a better explanation—though for the moment she couldn't quite remember her question.

Strong arms smashed her against his chest, and before she realized what had happened, he'd lifted her off her feet and swept her into his embrace. She gave a squeak of surprise and he lowered her to the ground, leaving her panting almost as hard as he was breathing.

"I'm in love with you," he said with a great deal of urgency. "Perhaps you are not right for me in the ways you think you should be, but I don't care. You don't have to sing or play piano or learn to read music."

"Good, because I can't do any of those things." She refused to let him go, finding herself caught up in a swell of undeniable emotion.

"All I want is for you to walk with me around the estate, talk about whatever is on your mind—which I know you will—and just…I just want you, Sophia. I don't know how else to explain it."

She laughed to herself. "When you come to your senses, you won't want any of those things."

He cupped her face in his hands. "As long as it's you, I want it."

"Erik—"

"I want you," he said, taking her hands in his. "As mine and no one else's."

Her lips parted in astonishment. "As…yours?"

"Forever."

"But—"

Before she could question him, he released her hands and kissed her again. His tongue probed her lips, tempted her to allow him in for a kiss she knew would drown her senses and inhibitions. She hated him for how good he made her feel, how he caused her blood to surge through her veins and for her head to feel deliciously light. She found herself clinging to his arms to steady herself as he weakened her knees with each succulent kiss.

Large hands grasped her first around the waist and then lowered until he cupped her bottom, which made her gasp in surprise and slap his hand away. As much as she savored his touch, he still left her confused.

"Shame on you," she said under her breath, smacking his hand away. "With your mother in the next room."

"I don't care who sees," he whispered back, gathering her in his arms with greater urgency than she could believe. It was as though he'd never touched her and now he couldn't bear to be away from her a moment longer. She relished the attention, the need he built inside of her as well—and the thrill of wanting something she didn't quite understand.

"Erik," she breathed, afraid he'd send her over the edge with one more tender kiss. If his

"I love you, Sophia," he said. "I don't know how to prove it to you or what to say in order to make you believe me. But I do I love you and I want you to stay with me. I want to take care of you and have you take care of me. Not as a servant in my home, but as my wife."

Once he said it, he smiled at her with an expression wavering between overwhelming joy and the fear of rejection.

A rush of blood and adrenaline left her weak-kneed in his arms. She stared up at him, felt the warmth of his moist breath on her face, a soft tickle of anticipation.

"Oh, Erik," she murmured, not knowing what else to say.

-o-

Angelina sat in the parlor and attempted to ignore the fragments of conversation streaming from the solarium. She folded and refolded her napkin, and told herself repeatedly that she hadn't heard Karl's name mentioned.

_What would have happened to you if I hadn't returned here? What would Karl have done to you? What would he still be doing to you and to Sabine? To the little girl as well?_

She closed her eyes and held her breath to keep the bone-numbing cold from settling inside of her. What had he attempted to do? She didn't need to speculate. The answer haunted her, brought back memories of a child who had faded one summer. The man who'd emerged in a sweet child's place terrified her. If he'd ever thought of hurting Sophia…or Sabine…or, God forbid, little Laure.

"A disgrace on your father," she whispered. "And I haven't the heart to blame you."

Once Erik's relationship with Sophia was repaired—and by the silence in the other room she hoped it meant they were speaking quietly to one another—she would ask him if he knew where Karl had disappeared to and when he would return.

Her only hope was that it wouldn't be any time soon.


	125. An Unforgettable Proposal

Paladin

Judging by her expression, a proposal was the farthest thought from Sophia's mind. She stared at him, a hardened, unconvinced look on her face that made him wonder if he'd made the correct choice in telling her of his past life and mistakes.

"I've told you the truth," he said, lowering his gaze. The painful, horrific, surreal past that belonged to him alone. Looking back on it, he could barely believe he'd lived in the cellar for as many years as he had—or that he'd stayed far away from people since his childhood. "And I've told you how I feel and what I would like. For us," he added quickly.

"Us," she echoed.

Christine's rejection had nearly killed him because it was all he had ever known, and if Sophia denied him, he was certain the pain would be fatal this time. At last he'd attempted to prove himself, to give the deepest, rawest parts of himself honestly, without false conviction or behind a mask. If she could accept him here, in his own home, she could forgive him for what he'd done in the past and still love him. There was nothing he wanted more than her acceptance.

"Sophia, please," he said, then stopped abruptly when he realized he didn't know what else to say to her. Never again would he lower himself to his knees and beg for what the rest of the world received freely. He didn't know if he had become more accustomed to losing what he wanted or if he'd come to respect himself more and let go of what didn't belong to him.

She took his hands in hers and smiled, which surprised him into complete silence. The warmth of her grasp, her skin soft and smooth against his, everything about her stunned him despite their recent time together. It was as though he'd never once kissed her, as though he were still a young man rather than an adult.

"Do you want me to marry you because you fear there will be no one else for you?"

Her words punched the breath from his lungs, and he frowned. "I do not intend for my proposal to insult you, Sophia."

"I find this all very…sudden," she replied. "I'm not certain if you're asking me because you want to ask or because you're afraid that I will leave now that you have fired me."

He winced, completely forgetting what had brought them to this situation in the first place. "I do fear losing you," he answered. "But I've thought of making you my wife for some time now."

Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed with suspicion. "Honestly?"

At once he nodded. "Especially after this morning, in your home when you and I were…intimate with one another," he said, keeping his voice low. He didn't want his mother to overhear their conversation, much less Citrine—who probably already knew everything.

"Yes," she said, her face flushing.

"I don't know if either of us can wait for something more," he said, purposely keeping his words vague.

"I will wait until I'm married," she answered. "No matter if I'm…I'm eighty years old."

He smiled down at her. "I'd be ninety," he said. "I don't know if I could please you if we waited that long."

As much as she tried to keep her lips pursed, she smiled up at him. "I never said I would marry you," she said, though her voice was light and musical. Forgiveness lay ahead, both what she could offer him and what he could offer himself.

"Then I will ask you properly."

Before she lowered her eyes, he saw the twinkle of hope in her gaze and he wondered if she did want to marry him but had decided to play coy. If there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that women were unpredictable creatures who begged to be understood yet tried their best to keep men confused.

"I need time to consider," she said as she stared at their joined hands.

Erik nodded and brought her fingers to his lips. "And I need time to ask you properly."

"Excuse me?"

"I will ask again. Later."

"Later?" Now she suddenly seemed more concerned than he'd been, which he found intriguing and amusing.

"When you're ready to be asked."

-o-

Sophia furrowed her brow and attempted to dissect what had happened and how she'd lost the upper hand. She'd only meant to see if he was absolutely certain that he did want to marry her, as she had no desire to become a mistake—but and suddenly he was no longer asking.

All she knew for certain was that Citrine would be terribly disappointed in her, but she wasn't sure if she cared what Citrine thought. She didn't want to agree to marriage and then discover that he'd used her to replace the woman he'd lost. Considering he'd been in love with a singer, she didn't see why he would ask her—not unless she had first convinced him.

And now she'd driven him away.

"How will you know when I'm ready?"

He studied her, his eyelashes lowered seductively. The veil over his eyes left her wondering what was on his mind—and how she could find out. A shiver ran down her spine at the endless possibilities. It would take a lifetime to discover him completely, but she was willing to make the sacrifice.

"I will know," he said softly.

"Tell me how," she said breathlessly.

"Perhaps later tonight," he answered. "Or tomorrow night if we are alone."

Her lips parted at the thought of being alone with him, of what he'd done to her earlier in the morning when they'd had a private moment—of what he might do again. Her stomach tightened, the tips of her breasts tingled with need. She hadn't thought she'd crave him like this.

"Why must I wait? Are you punishing me for—for wanting to know if what you've said is true?"

His chin lifted, and he searched her face. "You already know that what I've said is true."

She swallowed and glanced away. "They why?"

"Because I've decided it is a surprise now, and that you must decide if you truly want what I wish to offer you."

Sophia swallowed, watched his lips move with each word. There was nothing more sensual than watching him speak, seeing the words form and play against his soft, smooth lips.

"But I do," she replied. She wanted to explain to him that she didn't want him to ask her because he'd decided it was time to marry—or that now, when he was far from Paris, he feared that he'd never find anyone else and that he'd given up hope of marrying someone with as much passion for music as he had. She had to fear his offer, though she didn't understand why. It all seemed too perfect for her. After the deaths of her parents, after losing her home and becoming a servant, after what Karl had tried to do to her…she barely believed there was anything good in the world left for her.

With a single finger, he touched her chin and drew her face up. His smile made her fully aware that he knew what he was doing and that she had no idea how to react. She wanted to grab him by the lapels and make him kiss her. Then she'd know how he felt about her for certain. Then there would be nothing left to consider.

His thumb dragged along her lips, sent a spike of pleasure and anticipation down to her knees, which threatened to buckle. Instinctively she flicked her tongue out to quell the tickle left in the wake of his touch, and she licked the tip of his thumb.

His mouth opened, lips quivered in response to her touch. She felt the warm exhale of his breath against her face and ears, and her toes curled in her boots, heels lifted from the ground in anticipation. Slowly he leaned forward, his eyes heavily lidded, his lips still parted and inviting. His breath smelled of coffee, which she wanted to taste on his mouth. In fact, she was certain she'd die without the slightest hint of his flavor on her lips and in her blood.

There was no caution when it came to him, she realized. He'd become desire without fear of consequence, need without fear of risk. All she could recall was his proposal and her damnable response. Their time spent together should have been answer enough for her to realize that he did care for her. He couldn't hide or forge the passion he'd shown her.

"Erik, tell—"

"Soon, Sophia," he promised, his lips moving against hers with each word.

Her eyes fluttered shut, tongue searching for his, but in a heartbeat of madness, he was gone, and she couldn't remember ever feeling this alone.

-o-

Erik walked into the kitchen and found Citrine at the table with a pile of vegetables and cut meat beside her and a knife in hand. He was tempted to ask her to put the knife down.

"How good is your memory?" he asked.

"I remember how you hurt Sophia, and if you ever—"

"Find Gabe," he said coolly. She sat a little straighter, her eyes blazing with fury and curiosity. "And have him take you to retrieve several items."

"For what?"

"For Sophia."

"A parting gift to send her on her way?"

His jaw twitched. "To give her a proposal she'll never forget."

Citrine immediately scooted her chair back, shoved all of the food into a baking dish, and tossed it into the oven.

"Tell me what I need," she said as she tossed her apron onto the chair. "Tell me everything I need."


	126. The Hopes of Mothers

Paladin126

Erik walked past the parlor door with his spirits soaring and caught a glimpse of a woman sitting in one of the armchairs. Immediately he slid to a stop and felt his heart lurch. He closed his eyes and took a breath, appalled that he'd forgotten about his mother sitting alone. In the heat of the moment, when he thought he'd lost Sophia, he'd forgotten everything else.

"Erik?" she called. "Is everything all right?"

With a grimace, he turned and slowly walked through the doorway, where he found her smiling at him. She had an open book in her lap, which reminded him of the beloved storyteller of his youth.

"Fine." He sat beside her and frowned. "I apologize for my absence. It was rude—"

"It was necessary," she said, giving him another smile. Fidelio popped his head up and lifted his chin for a necessary scratch from his master. Erik obliged, grateful for a momentary distraction.

"I've made a terrible impression."

"You've done nothing of the sort." She patted his knee, reassuring him when he feared she'd leave. Even if he was no longer a child, he still cared a great deal for her and didn't want her to think of him as rude or ignorant.

"You should stay for supper," he offered. "Since I've barely spoken with you today and it's been years since we've—"

"We have the rest of our lives, Erik. You have nothing to fear. I've been sitting here reading a book I haven't seen in ages. I do believe all of the text is arranged in the same way it was twenty years ago." She searched his face, still a mother to her child in every way, a woman who could offer comfort to the boy inside of him that still expected the worst.

"I'm afraid I haven't had much time for reading," he mumbled.

She nodded and closed the book, which she set aside in order to give him her full attention. "You've been quite occupied, I see. How is Mademoiselle Dupree?"

He felt his cheeks burn, and he looked away, unsure of whether he wanted to tell her his intentions. Already he ran the risk of Citrine walking out the door, rounding the house, and waiting for Sophia in her home. Even though she'd sworn up and down that she wanted it to be a surprise, he didn't think she'd be trustworthy. The more people he told, the better the chances were of Sophia finding out what she had in store, which wouldn't do.

He wanted her completely surprised, and he wanted to see the look on her face. Already he'd imagined how her face would flush, how her hands would tighten, lock on his arms as she drew him to her. Nothing would please him more than her reaction—other than her agreeing to his proposal, of course.

"I think she'll be fine," he answered.

"Did you give her back her position?" Angelina questioned.

He met her eye and gave an uncertain smile, though he could tell she was genuinely interested in what he had to say. If he still remembered her correctly, she wouldn't tell anyone if he asked her to keep it a secret.

"I've decided to offer her a different position." He hesitated, his jaw working out the words in his mind that he desperately wanted to speak. Pride outweighed concern, and he sat back, reveling in the moment and his mother's reaction to his news. "As my wife."

Angelina grabbed his hand and squeezed it with startling force. Without knowing what had happened, Fidelio rose up and began wagging his tail, panting in delight of their combined excitement. The dog pawed at his leg and nudged at his arm, which forced him to give the wolfhound a pat on the head.

"When will you ask her? Soon, I hope."

"Soon," he agreed, finding himself relieved in her joy.

"Good," she said. "Better than good. It's perfect. I could tell by the way she looks at you, the expression on her face…she's fond of you."

"I'm very fond of her," he said.

"What about Monsieur Dupree? Will you ask him for her hand?"

He sat back and exhaled. "He knows I'm interested."

She nodded and appeared concerned. "If he's still in my home, I'll speak with him first."

Erik shook his head. "No, mother," he said sharply, which made her raise her brow at him.

"I beg your pardon?"

He reached out and squeezed her hand, appreciating her concern for him after all these years. "I'm a foot taller than you and I weigh twice as much," he said with a smile. "I think he'll listen to me over you."

"Careful what you say to him," she warned. "He's been friends with Karl for a very long time. Once he returns…if he returns…"

Erik's face darkened, and he turned away, unable to look her in the eye after what had happened. He gathered that she wasn't fond of her stepson, but regardless, she'd accepted him as family and he couldn't bear to look at her and lie, to pretend he didn't know what had happened to Karl.

"I will speak to Monsieur Dupree at once."

"Good. I want you married," she said with firmness he hadn't expected.

His eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

They both stood, and she lovingly patted his chest. "I'm an old woman, Erik." She rose on her tiptoes and gently pulled him down to her in order to kiss his cheek. His eyes briefly closed, a memory of childhood playing in the back of his mind. Her tenderness toward him had never ceased, and in her touch he felt no sense of distance between them. It was as though she could bridge the gap between the past and the present with the seamless efficiency only a mother could provide to a child—even an adult child.

"You're not old to me," he said. "You look the same as I remember."

She grinned, her cheeks full and rosy. "My sweet boy," she cooed. "You flatter me, but it's not necessary. You want a wife, I want to see my grandchildren."

"Mother!" He laughed, caught off guard by her brazen request.

She laughed with him, obviously amused by his surprise. He couldn't remember her ever being outspoken, though he wondered if she'd kept that away from him. Whatever it was, he appreciated her openness. Perhaps now, more than mother and son, they would be friends.

"Despite what you think, I'm too old to worry about sounding foolish, Erik" she said, taking his hand in hers. He looked down at her, found their roles slightly reversed. Every memory he'd had of her involved looking up into her face, an angel's face. It seemed strange to him that she was a full foot shorter, a petite woman who couldn't have possibly struck fear into him by yelling his name.

"I wouldn't say foolish. Bold, yes, foolish, no."

"I was never one for behaving." She winked at him, and he gave her a curious look. Hints of mischief gleamed in her eyes, a light from the past that refused to be dimmed. "Ask her brother today."


	127. A Secret from Sophia

A/N If you're over the age of 18 go to my website, read the excerpt for my book coming out later this month, and enter the contest for a chance to win one of four prizes!

Paladin127

Sophia walked into the kitchen and found Citrine rosy-cheeked.

"Where were you?" Sophia asked.

"Out." Citrine gave a sly grin, which Sophia knew was meant to ensnare her. She didn't want to allow it to work, but she had a feeling that Citrine knew something good. She usually did.

"Out where?"

"Taking care of a very special task assigned by none other than Monsieur Belmont."

"Really?" Sophia arched a brow, knowing that if Citrine had been a bird she would have puffed out her chest and fluffed her feathers.

"Really." Citrine put her nose in the air and sniffed. "However, it's none of your concern."

Sophia's jaw dropped, but she recovered at once and squared her shoulders. "I wasn't concerned. I was merely asking."

"Well, don't ask. I'm not supposed to tell you."

"It's about me?"

Citrine turned away. "I never said it was _about_ you. Why does it have to be about you? Because Monsieur Belmont is involved?"

"An hour ago you wanted to baste him and serve him up for supper."

"Yes, but everything has changed since then. And it's been three hours, mind you."

Still completely intrigued, Sophia folded her arms and narrowed her eyes, attempting an air of suspicion that she didn't feel. Somehow, during the time she'd returned home to clear her mind, Erik and Citrine had conspired against her.

That wasn't at all fair.

"We're supposed to be friends," Sophia said, her voice edged in a pout.

Citrine blew a raspberry. "We are friends, but it's different."

"Different how?"

Citrine looked simply exasperated. "Much as I love you, Sophia, our honest relationship can only exist when there are no juicy secrets. So for the time being, we're friends, yes, but not the same friends we were this morning."

"Why are you doing this?"

"I'm not doing anything." She gave a wink and shooed Sophia away. "I must start supper. Busy yourself."

"Citrine!"

Her friend laughed and placed her hand over her heart. "Oh, you know I merely wish to torment you. I must say you make it far too easy for me, Sophia."

"Did he really send you out for something?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell me what he sent you for?"

Citrine held up an onion. "This."

Sophia frowned. "Those were in the cellar. I put them there myself."

"Then, no, I won't tell you since you're such a clever girl and you've found me out." With that, Citrine walked out the back door. "And don't ask me again!" she shouted. "I promised Monsieur Belmont I wouldn't tell you a word!"

"I'll ask him myself." Sophia ran to the back door before it swung shut. "He'll tell me."

"He's not here."

"Excuse me?"

"I said he's not here. And no, I won't tell you where he went."

Sophia pursed her lips. It must have been a really good secret—and she wasn't in on it. Yet.

-o-

Gabe drove Angelina and Erik to the Turro Estate late in the afternoon. Now that he had set himself on the specific task of asking Philippe for Sophia's hand, he wasn't as confident as he'd been standing in his own home.

He hadn't seen Sophia before he left, which made him wonder if Citrine would blurt out his plans as soon as Sophia walked into the kitchen. The cook had been more excited than he'd first anticipated, and he hoped that was a good sign that she'd keep the secret to herself. If not for the sake of surprise, she'd want to keep her employment. From the drama she'd witnessed in the morning of him firing Sophia, Citrine had to understand that she could be next if she angered him.

"He's a very intelligent man," Angelina said.

He sat back from where he'd been watching the landscape blur past his window. "I beg your pardon?"

"Monsieur Dupree. He thinks everything through. His sister used to say he thought the fun out of everything, but you know how she enjoys teasing him."

Erik grunted. His stomach felt tight and uncomfortable as they approached the state. Philippe knew what he wanted, and though he didn't fear that he'd necessarily say no, Erik preferred to meet on his own terms. Somehow it seemed as though it would offer him a greater chance of acceptance.

"You don't have to ask him right now," Angelina offered.

"Yes, I do."

She shifted, the leather seats creaking beneath her. "Erik, is she...in a family way?"

"No," he answered, then more firmly. "No. That isn't why I want to marry her now. I just—it's just that I, that we're…I love her."

He couldn't possibly tell his own mother that he hadn't yet experienced the joys of flesh and love a woman could offer, but that the mere taste he'd been allowed had left him almost unable to think of anything else. With a proposal came marriage, and for Sophia, that meant opening an entire world neither of them knew.

While he doubted his mother would disapprove or judge him for being a man, he didn't want her to know outright that each turn of the carriage's wheels hopefully drew him further and further away from innocence and a life spent alone.

"Love doesn't need to be rushed," she replied, offering a smile as she leaned over and caressed his cheek. "Sage advice, I suppose. In my experience, men rarely think as it is, but throw a woman into their lives and they're defeated. Nothing is as deadly as love."

"I'll remember that."

The carriage slowed and turned into the drive. While he listened to Gabe instruct the horses, Erik wiped the palms of his hands onto his pant legs and took a breath. If anything, he'd learned to feign calm when inside he thought he'd crumble.

Until now, the most frightful moments in his life revolved around Christine, whom he never adjusted to, at least not when it came to being able to function. With the gypsies he'd merely shut down his emotions and learned to sit through their torment until he finally discovered an escape, which he'd taken and never looked back.

Christine, however, required drowning in emotions. There was no quiet moment to simply appreciate her. Ever second had been a struggle inside and out, a constant battle to first win her over and then keep her. He'd failed at both.

The same agonizing rush plagued him now, though he felt more acutely aware of the fall should Philippe deny him. He wondered if he'd become desperate again and take Sophia with him, though now he had no place to go.

As the carriage stopped and jostled with Gabe's shifting weight, Erik silently vowed to himself that he'd never be in that situation again, never put himself or someone he said he loved into a position where there was no way out.

"Are you ready?" Angelina asked.

Gabe opened the door for her, and to Erik's surprise, Philippe stood waiting to assist Madame Turro.

He hesitated only a moment before he followed her out. "Yes," he said. "I'm ready."

Angelina released Philippe's hand, told him how good it was to see him again, then turned to her servant Sabine and asked her to put tea on for Philippe and her son. It still shocked Erik to hear her call him her son, and he couldn't keep himself from smiling. Monster, phantom, devil's son…he'd been called many things, but he'd forgotten how it felt to have someone call him by a name he desired.

"I didn't expect you," Philippe said, offering his hand to Erik.

"I needed to speak with you."

"About Sophia?"

"Yes, it's—well, it's," he stammered. He hadn't expected Philippe to know why he was there, though there weren't many other reasons for him to travel to the Turro Estate. "It's important that I speak to you now."

"Has something happened?"

Erik immediately thought of lying in bed with Sophia, of how he'd explored her body in a way he'd never touched a woman before—but not as fully as he'd wanted to know her. He cleared his throat and shifted his weight, unsure of how to answer without incriminating himself.

"Is she hurt? Sick? What's wrong with her?" Philippe grabbed him by the arm and stared at him, obviously concerned.

"It's nothing bad," Angelina said as she stepped between them. "In fact, Monsieur Dupree, I think you'll be quite pleased." She offered both of them a smile before she turned away. "Follow me, gentleman. I'll see you both comfortable before I allow you some privacy."

Philippe studied Erik as they followed Angelina into the house. "How is she?"

Erik thought a moment. If he and Philippe would be family through marriage then he wanted to treat and be treated like family.

"It's been an interesting day," Erik answered.

"In what way?"

If he wanted to be honest, now was the time to start. "I released Sophia from her duties."

Philippe came to an abrupt stop in the foyer. "You did what?"


	128. Permission

Authors Note: Thanks to everyone for still reading and reviewing even though it's taking me longer to post updates. The engagement will take place in the next chapter, I swear on the lives of the NDBRs, loyal broads in their stilettos. Sorry, Pertie, no sex yet! I know if you hold your breath any longer someone will have to resuscitate you, and I love ya too much for that to happen. Thank you for still reading, Pertie-baby! LOL I know Rave just wants the plot and no sex.

I also have a brand new newsletter at yahoo groups for contest information and special story previews, but unfortunately that's only open to people over the age of eighteen. You can get to that on my website by going to subscribe. Everyone who signs up this month doubles their chances of winning a book and a gift card in June when I run my next contest. And guess what? The contest is for a free gas card! Woo hoo!

Gabrina

Paladin128

"Oh, Erik," Angelina said under her breath as she opened the parlor door. She cleared her throat, which took Philippe's attention off Erik. "Philippe, would you be a dear and draw back the curtains. It's such a beautiful afternoon and I hate for the two of you to be stuck in the dark here."

"Of course, Madame Turro," he answered.

She stepped aside for him to enter the parlor and gave Erik a pointed glare of disapproval. Without a word she shook her head, then nodded for him to enter the parlor.

"Remember what you want," she said as he passed.

When he turned to look at her, she'd already started down the hall.

Philippe finished tying back the curtain and looked around like an animal that had reluctantly entered its cage and was now trapped.

"Why?" he asked, not looking directly at Erik. His jaw worked relentlessly to the point where Erik wondered if Philippe would still have teeth by the end of the night. "What did she do? I'll fix it, whatever it is."

"She didn't do anything, she—"

"Where is she?"

"In her home."

"She will stay with me," Philippe said. He reached into the liquor cabinet for a bottle of brandy but apparently thought better of it and drew his hand back. "I'll keep her out of trouble."

"Actually..." Erik motioned toward Philippe, who had turned to look at him. The two men stared at one another for a long moment before Erik forced himself to continue. "I'd rather she stay with me."

His heart pounded so loudly that he barely heard Philippe's protest. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Monsieur Dupree," he said, spreading his hands. "I have something I'd like to ask you."

Philippe paused, his nostrils flared and mouth opened in another protest. "Then ask it."

This wasn't how Erik wanted to ask for Sophia's hand. This first step needed to be perfectly orchestrated in order for his proposal to take place as he wished. He took a breath and gestured toward the armchairs.

"It would be better if we sat," he said, attempting to be as diplomatic as possible.

Philippe looked from the chairs to Erik and shook his head. "I prefer standing."

"Well, I don't," Erik snapped.

"Then sit."

A light tap on the door interrupted both of them as Angelina returned. "Who would like cookies?"

Erik fumed inside but offered her a pleasant smile. Following his lead, Philippe helped her with the tray she carried and asked if Sabine was feeling well.

"Oh, yes, dear. I have her heating the water for your tea and decided that I shouldn't leave two men without a bite to eat." She smiled brightly and brushed past Erik, her hand on his forearm. "Try one. Sabine said she and Laure made them this morning."

"I've already had one," Philippe said.

"Oh, with how thin you are you certainly need another one." Angelina shone with unmatched charm and handed him a cookie, leaving him no choice but to accept. "That's a good boy, my dear. Now, why don't you have a seat? You're not in a hurry to return home, are you?"

"No, Madame."

She patted the back of the chair. "Right here. Why, you can see the birds outside when you sit here." She looked at Erik and smiled, obviously pleased with herself for her contribution.

Grandchildren, Erik thought. She was assisting him for the sake of grandchildren.

"You're too kind, Madame Turro." He took a seat as she requested and stared at the stack of cookies she placed on a plate and shoved into his grasp.

Angelina gave Erik his plate, equally piled high with cookies, and laughed to herself. She fanned her face as though she were embarrassed by Philippe's flattery. "You're such a dear, Monsieur Dupree, such an absolute dear," she said before she left the room and closed the doors.

Erik waited, finding his opportunity to speak first once Philippe took a bite out of his cookie.

"As I was about to say," he said quickly, watching Philippe chew as fast as possible. "I wanted to discuss my future with you, namely where it concerns Sophia."

Philippe stopped chewing and merely stared, his napkin balled in his fist. "Go on," he said through the crumbs in his mouth. He swallowed, appearing more nervous than Erik felt.

"I released her from her duties today."

Philippe nodded and fumbled for the tea Angelina had left behind. He poured himself a cup, not once looking away from Erik, and gulped down a mouthful. "Yes, yes, continue."

Erik was almost certain his heart would beat a hole through his chest. "I released her because I had every intention of asking you for permission—"

"My god," Philippe said under his breath. He stood at once, his plate and tea cup abandoned.

Erik took a step back, uncertain of Philippe's reaction. If he hesitated a moment longer he'd lose complete control of the situation—and now was not the time to lose the upper hand.

"Monsieur Dupree," he started.

"You're asking for her hand and you're doing it properly." Philippe smiled, a look of surprise on his face. "You are asking to marry her, aren't you?"

"I was," he answered warily.

Philippe ran his hand over his hair. "I apologize," he mumbled. "I should have allowed you to speak and just sat and listened. It's just that…being in this house, sleeping across from _his_ bedroom. It maddens me." He kept his voice low, his eyes intense with loathing. "When you arrived here I assumed there was an incident or problem of some sort—and then you mentioned my sister and…" He exhaled hard and shook his head. "It's no secret that I assume the worse."

"Yes," Erik said, having no idea what else to say. As far as he was concerned he hadn't asked to marry Sophia and most certainly hadn't received an answer from Philippe.

"Does she know why you're here?"

Erik shook his head. "I don't want her to know unless…until I have your reply. That is, until I have asked you and you have agreed."

Philippe chuckled to himself and nodded. "Then I suppose you should ask me."

Erik squared his shoulders and looked Philippe in the eye. "Monsieur Dupree, I'm very much in love with your sister and know she has feelings for me as well. It would be an honor if you would allow me to take her as my wife."

"You'll treat her well?" Philippe asked.

He nodded. "As no one else would ever treat her. My home is hers already, but I want it to belong to her." He took a small step forward. "And I want you as my business partner now, before we are family."

"Would your offer still stand if I denied your request?"

Erik hesitated. "I don't know."

"Is there any reason for me to deny you her hand?"

Erik looked away briefly. "I can assure you that what I've done in the past will never happen in the future. I love Sophia more than anything in the world and I will do whatever it takes to make certain that she's happy. If or when her eyesight fails I will think no less of her or abandon her. For as long as she'll have me in her life I will do right by her. You have my word."

"What is your word worth to me, Monsieur?" Philippe questioned.

"It's everything I have," he replied.

Philippe looked him over, his expression unreadable. For an agonizing moment Erik held his breath and waited for Philippe to give some indication of his intentions.

"Monsieur Belmont," Philippe said at last. He offered his hand, which Erik accepted. "Nothing would please me more than to see my sister happy as your wife. I accept as long as she does."

"Thank you," Erik said, breathing a sigh of relief.

"You have no need to thank me. After what you did for her, I could only hope that you'd marry her. She needs someone…" Philippe unexpectedly tapped Erik's forearm, his demeanor unguarded and friendly at last. "She needs you."

Erik bowed his head, affected more deeply by Philippe's words than he'd ever imagined he'd be before a man he considered his servant. With Sophia as his wife, he wouldn't consider Philippe a butler. They'd be family, the pieces to a puzzle he'd never realized he'd been searching for.

"You have my word that she'll be happy," he said to assure Philippe.

"I know as much…from what happened."

"I don't want to think of what could have happened."

Philippe agreed, patted Erik once more on the arm, and muttered under his breath that he needed to find Sabine. He absently mentioned something about Sabine not feeling well before he gave his congratulations and blessing and left the room, a slight but still noticeably smile on his face.

Erik gave a sigh of relief. He finally had what he wanted. Almost. Now all he had to do was propose and hope that his plans remained a secret.


	129. Circle of Love

This is the very last chapter of Paladin for those of you who have been hoping for some end in sight! Will I write more? Possibly, but not starting right this moment. I've stressed how busy I've become. Once I finish some other stuff I would love to revisit Sophia and Erik and give them a wedding and a wedding night. The original version was three stories. What's already here is more than enough for two stories. Sorry about that. I just realized how freaking long this thing really is...

Thanks to all of you who have been very supportive and honest in your reviews. This story is by no means perfect, but these were my original Phantom characters and I've enjoyed turning every screw possible. Much love to my betas for all of their work and for their suggestions. The two of you are invaluable to me and I appreciate every moment of your time.

Paladin129

Two days later…

"Monsieur," Citrine sighed as she dragged herself into the parlor where Monsieur Belmont was sitting comfortably in an armchair as he read. She purposely slumped her shoulders and shuffled her feet along the ground to make herself appear as pathetic as possible, which wasn't difficult considering she'd been keeping Sophia preoccupied for the last two days.

"Mademoiselle?"

"I'm exhausted. Please tell me you'll end this torment soon."

He glanced up at her, brows raised in question. In the two days he'd spent hiding in the parlor, he had apparently forgotten how daunting Sophia and her endless barrage of questions could be. The secret she'd been flaunting had made it worse, and now every few minutes Sophia was asking what Citrine knew or shamed her for not giving in to her constant questioning.

"I beg your pardon?" said Monsieur Belmont. He ran his thumb along the edge of the page he'd been reading, a subtle, sensual movement. Citrine couldn't help but think that Sophia was definitely on his mind.

Still, she reminded herself that Sophia was the cause for her suffering.

"All of this waiting," she groaned. "It's insufferable."

Shutting his book, he took a deep breath and stood. "No one is more anxious than I."

"Clearly you haven't been near Sophia," she said, perking up just enough to stress her point. Part of the plan was to keep Sophia preoccupied, which was becoming increasingly more difficult now that she wanted to know what Monsieur Belmont was doing in secret.

"Is she unwell?" Monsieur Belmont questioned.

"She's driving me absolutely mad."

"You swore to me—"

"I know, I know. I took this upon myself," she groaned dramatically. "But she keeps questioning me and I have nothing I can tell her."

"Which keeps you from saying something and giving my plans away," he replied.

Keeping a secret was no longer fun when she wasn't immediately involved. Unable to hold herself up a moment longer, she leaned against the wall. "At least tell me when you plan to ask her."

"Soon."

"Monsieur," she begged. "Please, a mere hint."

"Soon is a hint, mademoiselle."

With a sigh, she gave up and walked out. "You are both maddening and deserv each other," she muttered to herself. When he made no reply she added, "You do not ask me for favors in the future, do you hear me? I have only so much patience!"

-o-

The details were perfect, the room precisely the way he had envisioned.

Erik sighed in relief, grateful that Citrine hadn't seen the note he'd written for Sophia. At this point, with his finely tuned plan almost underway, he didn't want to risk her expecting his proposal. In fact, he wanted her to think it was still days away.

If he'd been a patient man, he would have allowed her to writhe for days, perhaps weeks longer, but he wanted her as his wife—and the sooner the better.

Alone once more, he imagined the moments after he proposed and wondered if she'd throw herself into his arms or quietly accept and kiss him shyly. In his darkest, most sensual fantasies there were more than mere kisses and innocent embraces. There was passion equal to his own burgeoning desires, there was abandonment of all senses and willingness to give in to her needs and his.

He glanced at the note with her name on it, a request for her company. It didn't say when, it didn't say where, but it told her what to do if she agreed.

This was the part that gave him pause. She had to agree to meet him or his entire plan was ruined before it was underway.

His heart beat faster, his palms wet with anxiety like he'd never experienced before. She had to agree to meet him. He loved her and she loved him, but with two days apart he had no idea if absence made her heart grow fonder or if she slowly enjoyed her freedom.

Like Christine had wanted her freedom.

He looked at the bottle of wine he'd asked Citrine to retrieve for this special moment and wondered if it would be put to better use calming his nerves. By the time he drained it, he'd be prepared to ask for her hand—if he remembered what to say. Like his music, he'd rehearsed the moment, if only in his mind, and he knew what he wanted to tell her, what he wished he'd told her long ago.

Stars danced before his eyes as he stood, accenting his nervousness with an unfamiliar rush. He hadn't expected to feel nervous when he asked her to marry him. In his fantasies of this moment he'd been very calm and collected, his words clear and direct. He realized that in a way he'd imagined more of a business transaction than a proposal, though with the flowers and the ring.

He blinked, waited for his vision to clear, and placed the note in his breast pocket with the intention of slipping it under her front door. Then he would begin his agonizing wait until dusk.

It was now or never—and he couldn't tolerate never.

-o-

"Well?" Citrine asked, her expression stretched with an ear-to-ear grin.

"I haven't opened it yet," Sophia replied.

They stood in the kitchen where the water Citrine had set to boil threatened to burn the bottom of her favorite sauce pan. Nothing mattered more than this moment, however, least of all supper.

"Yes, you have. I can see it from here." She craned her neck for a better look. "The seal is broken."

"Yes, but I decided to show you first." Sophia's hands trembled as she pulled the note from the envelope. "I just found it a moment ago and…and…"

"What does it say? What does it say?" Citrine squealed, bouncing up and down in shared delight.

"It says…" She read the single sentence, then flipped it over and found it blank. Brow furrowed, she looked at Citrine. "It says 'You are invited'. Six p.m."

"To?"

"It doesn't say."

"What!" Citrine screamed. She snatched the note from Sophia's hand. "There must be more. Did you drop a page?"

"No. And don't you think he would have written more on the same page?"

Citrine exhaled hard. "Who knows? The man is absolutely maddening."

"What do I do?" Sophia asked, wringing her hands.

"I don't know. What time is it?"

Sophia looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. "Five after six." She jumped and looked around as though Erik would magically appear. "I'm late." She glanced down at her clothes. "And I'm not dressed properly."

"How do you know when he didn't tell you anything?"

Sophia frowned. "I know what he intends. I think. Don't I?"

"I don't know."

"He's going to ask if I'll…isn't he?"

"I would assume."

"Well, isn't that what the planning was for?"

"Yes, but I don't know the details. He wouldn't tell me."

Sophia began to panic. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

Citrine put her hand on Sophia's arm and offered a smile. "Find him."

-o-

She ran outside and jumped over a log that had rolled from the wood pile, unsure of what she was looking for or where to find it. Her first plan, however, was to change into more suitable engagement clothing.

In between the main house and her own she spotted the carriage, which Gabe was leading toward the house. She slowed her pace and stared at it, unsure of whether Erik had arrived home or if he intended to leave. She wondered if he was leaving without her since she was late, though she highly doubted he'd be particular.

Or would he? Suddenly she wasn't sure of anything other than she had to see him now.

She bit her bottom lip and waved to Gabe, who had a smirk on his face.

"Where is Monsieur Belmont?" she asked, still clinging to the note she'd received.

Gabe jumped down and opened the carriage door. "This way, Mademoiselle."

He reached for her hand and helped her into the carriage where Erik sat waiting for her, his unmasked face reflecting the anxiety she felt inside. They stared at each other for a moment, her halfway inside the carriage, him seated close to the door.

"Good evening," he said.

She found herself smiling back at him. "Hello. I wasn't sure what your note meant."

"Good."

"Good? No, it's terrible. You have no idea how—"

He pulled her in beside him, his hands grasping her wrists and caressing her from the backs of her hands to the sensitive tips of her fingers. Her throat went dry, her breath catching.

"I know." His voice was a low rumble, a pulse-quickening tone. "You have an insatiable curiosity."

He had no idea what curiosity he awoke within her. "Where have you been? You've nearly killed me these past two days," she said dramatically. "And you almost killed me tonight with this note of yours."

He pulled her close and buried his face against the side of her neck. His warm breath and smooth, heated face startled her, made her stomach flip and her thighs squeeze together to catch the unexpected ache that had started at her core. She leaned into him, her body ignited with a fire she would never forget, an awakening of desire and need she'd thought of constantly since he'd brought her to her first climax. Above all else, she would remember the way he made her feel, the earthquakes of pleasure he sent rippling through her body.

"The night is not over yet," he said.

She sat wedged up against his body, the scent of him carrying her through the long carriage ride. He shut the curtains and curled his arm around her, and in darkness he found her lips. They rocked along with the movements of the wheels, fumbled and chuckled as their bodies and voices vibrated.

"You must tell me where we're headed," she pleaded in the softest of whispers.

He nuzzled her, a tickle of long eyelashes brushing her cheek. "I have better uses for my tongue than answers."

All at once the breath in her body was forced out in an exhale of anticipation. She played with his shirt collar, sneaked her fingers beneath his cravat to touch his skin as she wondered about these uses.

He kissed her neck, ran his tongue in a languid line just below her earlobe. It took all of her strength to stifle a groan of pleasure. A better use indeed, she wanted to tell him. A much better use.

"Touch me, Sophia," he said hoarsely, his breath hot and hard against her sensitive skin. He reached for her hand, squeezed it gently, and brought it to his knee where she instantly skimmed it up his thigh. The long muscles in his legs tensed, his knees spreading as she shifted his weight.

They were near frenzy when the carriage stopped and Sophia was forced to pull her hand from Erik's lap. She heard him exhale, felt his fingers tighten on her before he allowed himself to let go.

"We're here," he said.

Gabe opened the carriage door and she peered out at the candle-lit darkness. Her eyes lost focus among the many bright yellow orbs. Torches formed a circle, and red rose petals were spread across the green spring grass.

"May I assist you, mademoiselle?" Gabe offered.

She gave him her hand, still awestruck by the sight, still unable to come down from the cloud of anticipation she'd felt while in Erik's arms. Once she stepped onto the soft earth she noticed the overseer's house in the distance.

"Why are we—?"

"Here." Erik took her by the elbow and guided her forward as Gabe returned to the driver's seat and pulled away. She barely noticed the jingle of bridles and tack as Erik stood before her and took her hands in his.

"My life ended when I was taken from this place," he said. He stepped closer, closed the space between them. "When I returned here, I expected it would be to die alone, but I found you."

Tears filled her eyes, joy overwhelmed her. "And I found you," she whispered.

"You have become to me the fire in all the darkness I've ever known." He watched her, searched her face as he spoke. "Like we stand here now. This is how it is to be with you, loved and unafraid of light."

She reached up, touched his cheek with tenderness he deserved.

"I wanted you hear with me, where I was born and where I doubted I would ever live again. If I start over here, I want it to be with you, Sophia. Your brother has consent, and I will ask you what I've considered longer than you know."

He took a breath and lowered to one knee. Stunned, she watched him, afraid to blink and miss one moment of his proposal.

"Sophia Patrice Dupree, will you marry me?"

Tears streamed down her face as she knelt beside him and flung her arms around his neck, toppling both of them to the ground. His hips pressed to hers and sent a surge of emotions through her. She would feel more than that if she agreed, though she wanted him for more than intimacy. She had accepted his faults and he'd looked past her failing eyesight. He was everything to her, an unexpected joy in her life that she never imagined.

He was perfect in her eyes, and she never wanted to be without him again.

"Yes," she said. He kissed her, wound his arms around her waist. "Yes, I will. Yes, I'll marry you, Erik Belmont."

He rolled on top of her, pinned her to the ground and kissed her lips. "Then let's return to our home and celebrate."

Our home, she though. "Another surprise?"

He smiled, his eyes slit open. "I like the way you react to surprises."

"Erik," she whispered, feeling him shift his weight. The bulge in his trousers rubbed against her belly.

"Yes?"

"Don't call Gabe back just yet."


	130. Chapter 130

Paladin130

Shameless self promotion: I have a Phantom-inspired story available in an electronic anthology (or individually) coming out this Sunday. You can preview it on my bulletin board if you're one of the elite or by visiting my website. It's a sensual romance, meaning 18 and over only, but if you've enjoyed my phantom stories here please support me in my original writing! Also, if you buy it the first week it's out and send me your receipt, I'll send you a short erotic phantom story called Delicate Angel, an exclusive only found on my bulletin board to original members.

**Paladin130**

He smiled against her lips and rolled onto his side to keep from crushing her on the cold ground. Even if her brother approved of their marriage he wouldn't approve of her returning home covered in dirt—and he feared one false move and Philippe might change his mind.

Sophia sighed and kept her hand at the back of his neck and gazed into his eyes, appearing more content than ever. He could already imagine waking to her perfect smile every morning, how it would feel to roll over and find her awake beside him, or asleep and rousing to his gentle kisses. It gave him goosebumps to merely think of seeing her every morning rather than waking to nothingness. He wondered if it would always come as a surprise to see her delighted when she looked up and saw him.

"How did you ever plan this?" she asked.

"I will give you everything, Sophia, save my secrets on how I plan to amaze you for the rest of our lives together."

"Amaze me?"

"Every day."

"With your music?"

"With everything." Already he had imagined leaving flowers for her in the dining room or chocolates on her pillow at night just to hear her gasp in surprise and tell him he shouldn't have gone through the trouble. "Whatever you've imagined, I'll give it to you."

Her grin widened, and she kissed him slowly as though time no longer mattered. He savored the feel of her smashed against his body, the way she sighed when he caressed the base of her neck and ran his fingers along the shell of her ear. He deepened their kiss and massaged her tongue with his, drawing her closer. Coaxing soft murmurs and groans from her seemed like playing a fine instrument to him, the tune unknown yet still familiar, the melody theirs alone. Now this was the music of the night, a sweeter song than he could have ever composed.

His desire for her strained against his trousers, his blood racing through his veins as she held him close, her hips rising to meet his. He wanted her, every inch of her, but he made no attempt to undress her or encourage her to cast her values away and give herself to him. There would be other ways, he assured himself, and soon they could do as they wished as often as they liked—and he had a feeling it would never be often enough.

"Are you happy?" he murmured.

She nodded and wiped the last tear from her eyes. "Of course I'm happy." Her lips pursed as though she wished to keep something to herself.

"But…"

Lips pursed, she stared at him long and hard. "But I want to know what surprise you have in store for me back home."

"My impatient Sophia." He chuckled to himself and sat up, bringing her with him until they were both cuddled together.

"I wouldn't be impatient if you would tell me." She gave him a look as though her words were perfectly sensible.

"What fun is that?"

She nudged him with her shoulder. "It's fun for me."

"Everything you've ever imagined, I'll make it better."

She linked her smallest finger with his and brought their joined hands to her lips until he could feel her warm breath against the back of his hand. Gently she kissed his knuckle, a sweet innocent gesture only his Sophia could give him. His affection for her was like a puzzle of the smallest moments, each one bringing together a larger, grander expanse that no one could have seen piece by piece.

"I know you will," she said.

He could feel her begin to tremble and held her closer, nuzzling her neck and kissing her softly until she giggled and patted his cheek, her touch soft and reassuring, completely without fear. He found himself enjoying her touch, relaxed in her presence and welcoming her affection. She could treat him in a way no one else would, giving him exactly what he'd spent a lifetime craving. He would marry her and never fear her reaction to him, never walk into the room and wait for horror to subside.

"I love you," he said suddenly, clinging to her, to his Sophia. He couldn't wait to give her his name, to hear her say proudly that she was Sophia Patrice Belmont.

"Good. Because I love you too."

"You're cold. We must return soon."

"I'm fine."

"Sophia—"

"I enjoying having you to myself, Monsieur," she said, kissing him again. "Without any distractions."

"You are the greatest distraction and inspiration I've ever had," he said, speaking to her as though he confessed his soul.

"Yet you still won't tell me what you have back home for me."

He gave a heavy sigh and shook his head. "Perhaps out here I'll give you the stars."

She gazed up, a look of wonder on her face as she searched the dark skies above their head. "Which ones?"

"All of them."

"All of them? I don't want to be greedy. I'll take some of them."

He should have expected such an answer from her, but it caught him by surprise and he looked her over, wondering how he'd found the person who could complete his life when he'd been cast away from the only home he'd known most of his life.

"Which ones do you want?" he asked.

She climbed to her feet and motioned for him to follow, and together they walked from beneath the trees and admired the sky. Winks of light filled the darkness, scattered as though someone had dusted shards of silver across a black canvas.

"That one, that one, and that one, right there."

His gaze darted around, but he had no idea where she pointed. "I beg your pardon?"

"That was easy. Now, which one do you want?" Sophia asked.

He looked from her to the sky and heard her giggle. "What's so funny?"

"You don't know which one you want, do you?"

"You're giving me a star now?"

"I'll give you more than a star." She smiled at him and pointed at the sky. All at once he caught a hint of her mischief and couldn't wait to see what she had in store for him. "I'm giving you the moon. You had better not lose it."

He took a step back and examined it a moment. "By all means, mademoiselle, deliver the moon to me."

"I'll give you the moon when you give me my surprise."

Erik tilted his head to the side and sighed. "I should have known."

"One day, when we're both old, you'll know better." She returned to his side and linked her arm with his. "Now take me home."


End file.
